The Incredibles is not just a kids film! Now if you'll excuse me, me and Santa are about to have some chocolate milk before bed.

(Note: I couldnt get the clip from the DVD, so I altered the times to correspond with the youtube clip.

The only shots I talk about are the first 16 seconds of the clip.)

The Incredibles (2004), a computer-animated Pixar film directed by Brad Bird, is ostensibly just a kid-friendly film about a family of superheroes who are forced into action years after all “supers” are prohibited from using their powers. However, it quickly becomes clear that Bird has bigger issues on his mind. The film offers arguably one of the best explorations of the American family in recent memory, and argues firmly against the celebration of mediocrity Bird sees as prevalent in society today. Indeed, the film certainly owes a debt to both Randian Objectivist philosophy and the acclaimed graphic novel Watchmen, unlikely inspirations for a children’s film. The Incredibles manages to explore these real-world themes only by establishing a firm sense of realism in an inherently unrealistic world, as animation must be an entirely artificial creation. This realism is also vital in establishing an emotional connection between the viewer and the characters, as without it, it is much harder for the viewer to identify with the characters, and even with film itself. In this paper, I will examine how the film uses conventional cinematic language and attention to key details to establish a sense of realism so that the film can maintain thematic relevance. I will concentrate on how this realism is established as opposed to why it is necessary.

The five-shot sequence I examined occurs towards the end of the film. The scene focuses on Frozone (Samuel L. Jackson), a retired superhero, attempting to react when a monstrous robot begins to wreak havoc on the city where Frozone lives. Frozone has, up until this point, not been directly involved in the central plot, and is still going about his day-to-day life. The audience has actually not seen this character for over an hour, so the first shot in the sequence is absolutely crucial. The shot directly preceding this sequence is a mild close-up on the face of a female character far away from where Frozone is, and the film must establish this through a clear transition. A confusing transition would only remove the viewer from the narrative logic of the film, and in doing so would detract from its attempts at realism.

The first shot effectively provides the necessary details for this new scene. The viewer initially sees, in the first shot (0:00-0:03), a set of hands pouring out some aftershave. The perspective comes from behind the person using the aftershave, starting at his back and then shifting into an over-the-shoulder shot. The first image of the shot provides the viewer with a completely new image, so there can be no confusion with the previous one. The viewer now knows that this is a new scene, so the transition is handled effectively in this regard. The second part of the shot clarifies where the action has moved to. This is handled by an upward shift in the image from Frozone’s hands to his face, where he begins to apply the aftershave. The reflection of the mirror indicates he is in a living room at some residence, presumably his own. By demonstrating the geography of the room, the shot is successful at transitioning from one scene to another.

Not only is the shot a successful transition, but it also manages to create a tremendous sense of realism by imitating the conventional cinematic language. It does so initially by using what appears to be a camera pan moving up from Frozone’s hands to his face. However, there is no camera being used in the scene itself. There may be a camera for the purposes of recording the film, but it serves a fundamentally different purpose than a camera in a live-action film. It is obvious that there is no camera behind Frozone, simply because Frozone doesn’t exist. Instead of using a camera to record Frozone’s actions, the animators at Pixar have simply designed a series of frames that replicate the effect of a camera. Why would Pixar animators deliberately attempt to imitate the existence of a camera? Couldn’t they liberate themselves from that perspective, and offer a new way of viewing these images? Quite simply, they cannot. They are beholden to the system, as it provides the best way for them to create a sense of realism.

Christian Metz, in Film Language¹, argues that cinema itself is a language, with conventions of grammar that signify what is occurring onscreen. When cinema is viewed as such, it becomes clear that certain techniques in film have universal meanings. Metz argues that these meanings are internally accepted by the viewer without conscious thought, and thus make communication via film simpler. I will discuss several of these techniques later, but what is relevant here is that the language is based upon the existence of a camera. Even though there are no cameras for animated films, the language of film as a whole is still dependent upon it. The animators realize this, and understand that the clearest way to communicate in film is through the established language. The shot of Frozone looking in the mirror uses this cinematic language to demonstrate the geography of the living room, and as this language is necessarily the replication of conventional live-action camera recordings, the shot must imitate the presence of a camera.

In the case of this film, the imitation of conventional cinematic language becomes doubly important. Not only does it make communication between the film and viewer simpler, but it also inspires an immediate identification with live-action cinema. The viewer subconsciously connects the technique as being an aspect of traditional films, and thus identifies these animated characters with actual actors, and perhaps even actual humans. Obviously, the viewer is still aware that these are animated images and not real people, but the subconscious connection makes him² more willing to accept the character as realistic. Therefore, when the viewer is misled to believe that a camera is recording Frozone’s movements, the viewer is tricked into a sense of identification with the character, just as he is tricked into believing that a camera is recording these proceedings.

The mise en scène of this shot is also crucial in establishing the sense of realism the film strives to achieve. The audience is viewing a very average, mundane action. The mirror’s reflection shows how the room is, upon first viewing, an average domestic household. A simple bookshelf is behind the dresser and mirror where Frozone is standing, and ostensibly this is just an average living room. The music, in contrast to the film’s jazzy, James-Bond inspired Michael Giannchino score, is light and dull, the sort of music one would hear in an elevator. The shot creates a tremendous sense of mundane domesticity, which is exactly what Brad Bird’s goal is. By juxtaposing the realism of this shot with the fantastical nature of the following shots, Bird makes the conflict of the scene more real and more imminent. These upcoming shots will change the ordinary into the extraordinary, allowing the viewer to believe that the fantastical situations that occur in the film aren’t too far removed from everyday life.

The second shot (0:03-0:07) completely destroys the sense of normality the previous shot worked to establish. This is no longer a scene about a man maintaining his hygiene; instead, it becomes a man working to save the city. The camera is 90 degrees from where it once was, and now gives the viewer a panoramic view of the living room. In the background, outside of Frozone’s window, the viewer sees a giant robot wreaking havoc on the city, and a helicopter unleashing gunfire on the robot. Frozone turns around, looks out the window, and immediately returns to his dresser to search for something. The shot uses light in an incredibly realistic and subtle manner. The sun reflects off of the metallic robot’s image, and both the robot and Frozone cast accurate shadows on the floor. The location of the sun is constant, even though the animators could easily have made a mistake and altered it from one frame to another. This attention to detail is crucial, as minor inaccuracies like incorrect lighting would detract from the film’s quasi-realistic nature.

The next two shots are very fluid and simplistic in nature, and therefore I will deal with them briefly. The third shot (0:08-0:09) is a very basic one. The “camera” is slightly further back than in the first shot, but from the same angle. Frozone rummages through several drawers and finds a remote that he uses after he turns around. This shot transitions directly into a fourth shot (0:10-0:12), where the “camera” is now where the dresser is, and the array of books behind Frozone shift to reveal a hidden, and empty, compartment. However, there is a cut-on-motion here, and leads into a fifth shot (0:13-0:16). The zooming in of this cut follows the motion of the fourth shot, so the cut is not immediately clear. The cut’s function is to highlight the absence of Frozone’s “supersuit.” The fifth shot initially is of Frozone torso, but again the image shifts upward to Frozone’s face.

The fifth shot sets up the conflict that proceeds after this sequence is over while continuing the film’s imitation of conventional camera and editing techniques. Frozone yells “Honey” to his wife, and his wife responds from off-screen. The viewer never sees Frozone’s wife, but the shot immediately shifts upward to Frozone’s face. This shift upward is identical in nature to the first shot of the sequence, and again forwards the illusion that this is all being viewed through the lens of a live-action camera. After the shift, Frozone’s eye line moves to the left, indicating the direction of his wife without the audience ever seeing her. This eyeline match, although in this case it matches eyeline to sound as opposed to another object, must occur, as a real person would look towards the person he was talking to.

The dialogue here is also crucial. It is the first dialogue of the sequence, and is simultaneously grounded in reality while being completely removed from it. Clearly, Frozone is asking for a “supersuit” that allows him to use his ability to instantaneously freeze water. Nonetheless, this is a very common and stereotypical domestic debate. A fight is occurring over the location of clothing, very much like when an average married person cannot find their clothing because their partner moved it. It’s a common domestic problem: it just so happens that this problem involves superpowers and the destruction of the city as well as the search for missing clothes. The tone of voice of both Frozone and his wife is a vital detail, as the tone really establishes the partially antagonistic relationship domestic couples may have. This dialogue reestablishes the sense of domestic normality the first shot gave the audience, and by doing so continues to ground this unrealistic film in reality.

The cinematic techniques of The Incredibles deliberately copy the techniques of conventional, live-action cinema. The shots pan up and down like a traditional camera would, and the eyeline matches create a sense of continuity consistent with the established cinematic language. The film uses these techniques in an effective manner, and this allows it to establish a sense of realism it otherwise could not have obtained. The Incredibles manages to be a realistic film in spite of its fantastical plot and usage of animation, a form of cinematic creation necessarily less realistic than simply recording the performances of actors. It succeeds only by pretending to be what it is not: a live-action film.

1. 1. The Metz article I reference is not the one read in class, but rather one from Film Theory and Criticism, although it’s ideas somewhat explored in the class article. However, the summation I give is the only relevant part of the article for this paper, and hopefully the point made is clear enough.

2. 2. I always try to clarify that, even though I think it’s a tad bit sexist, I use “he” as opposed to “one” or “he or she” as a singular pronoun, because “one” quite often sounds awkward, and “he or she” always does. I only do it once or twice in this paper, however.

Works Cited:

Bonitzer, Pascal. "Off-Screen Space." Cahiers du Cinema Dec. 1971: 291-305. Print.

The Incredibles (Two-Disc Collector's Edition). Dir. Brad Bird. Perf. Craig T. Nelson, Holly Hunter. Walt Disney Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD.

Metz, Christian. "Some Points in the Semiotics of Cinema."Film Language: A Semiotics of the Cinema. Chicago: University Of Chicago Press, 1990. 67-73. Print.

Easily the most ridiculous thing i've written for this class. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and its subversion of noir, a la Calwetti's "Chinatown."

It is really, really, tremendously unjust that Kiss Kiss Bang Bang was never given a wide release. Released in 2005, a lack of ability to market it led to it being rushed in and out of theatres. This has nothing to do with what I’m about to say, but it ticked me off so much because it is a film that should be widely seen. It’s distortions of genre (what I’m actually going to talk about) are nothing short of ingenious, and it’s also just a really (expletive deleted) good film. And yes, I am trying to imitate the film’s style, to no avail, and probably to the detriment of my grades (too self-referential? Almost definitely. I apologize for it in advance: it only gets worse from here-on-in. Also, if you forgot what this sentence was originally about due to this ridiculously long intrasentence parenthesis, it’s about me imitating the film), in this blog itself. And yes, I will overuse (and incorrectly use) parenthesis.

Spiritually, the film really reminded me of Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye. Both are criminally unseen, both are comedic takes on the noir genre (or whatever noir is), and both involve tremendously incompetent protagonists. In fact, they are so much similar that I’m going to make this paragraph extraneous, and just forgot I ever brought up the previous film after this paragraph (you can skip ahead now). Without spoiling the film, the scene where Robert Downey Jr. shoots the murderer of the purple-haired girl is nearly identical to the closing of The Long Goodbye. The slapstick violence, twisting plot, and mockery of Hollywood are also key components of both films. BUT, I know, my point here is not to recommend films. Instead, it is perhaps to show how Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is a successor to a long line of films that managed to subvert genre without neccesarily being satire. And, I think, to show how Hollywood itself (Robert Altman, who would later direct the out-and-out Hollywood satire The Player, and Shane Black, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang's director and a long time screenwriter, both had experienced some of the stereotypical betrayals of a cutthroat Hollywood) forces the people who work in film to question and mock its conventions, its mores, and even the other people in Hollywood. It's interesting to see how these subversions develop over time, and how little Hollywood culture and conventions really changed over the course of 30 years (unfortunately, no clips from the film I'm referencing, which sort of makes it hard to show the obvious parallels).

Well, after two paragraphs not talking about what I should talk about, let me get down to business. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is a great example of how to subvert a genre without necessarily lampooning it. This is not an Airplane!-like film. There are real characters here, and even when their situation is played for laughs (which is often), I still felt for the characters. Perhaps it’s a tribute to Robert Downey Jr.’s acting ability that I can laugh when he accidentally shoots a man, yet simultaneously feel his rage and indignation when he purposefully shoots another. The second scene is, and I don’t mean to exaggerate, one of the best acting jobs I could imagine. Robert Downey Jr., who up until this point has essentially served in a comedic fashion, switches the film’s tone almost instantaneously from one of comedic (on my first viewing I laughed when the hitman sees him) to pure darkness. He is a moral man who commits a cold-blooded act of murder, and the switch is pitch-perfect.

It’s one hell of a balancing act, and it’s one that Kiss Kiss Bang Bang executes almost perfectly. It allows the film to out-and-out mock the noir genre (the Russian roulette scene, throwing the gun in the water, the entirety of “Gay” Perry’s character), while still employing the techniques that make the genre effective. The emotional resonance of some scenes (including when Gay Perry is shot) is amazing, especially when one considers how funny the scene right before it was. Admittedly, sometimes Shane Black's screenplay fails to work (the conclusion is a bit unsatisfying: it leaves open the romantic subplot in a manner I think is lazy, and it erases the impact of Gay Perry’s shooting. Also, the plot is still way too convoluted), but, as Some Like it Hot taught us…

Well, that joke didn’t work too well either. Let’s move on. The key to the film’s structure that allows us to simultaneously mock and submit to the noir genre is the film’s consistent breaking of the fourth wall. It’s an technique that can be used for great success (and, looking back on my blogs, I will bring up Annie Hall for the 10,000^th time. Could you tell I’m a New York Jew? However, it's also a great tool for pure comedy), or can completely remove the viewer from the film. Indeed, the film can admit when it’s being lazy (the expository dialogue about the antagonist, ending the film as many times as Return of the King), and yet it can still be lazy. It’s also the assumption I tried out with this blog: concede each one of my screw ups, and try to pass them off as jokes. Hopefully, I didn’t make you forget out of the actual ideas of my post.

Oh right, the actual ideas of my post. Well, I guess it’s this. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang does an incredibly great job of subverting genre. It uses great performances and comedy to both mock and embrace the noir film. It’s hysterical, occasionally poignant, and undeniably unique. I love it, but I tried to concentrate more on how the film successfully toys with the idea of genre. I could see why some might find its self-referential nature obnoxious (for example, people who find this blog obnoxious, and trust me, I don’t blame you if you do. In fact, if you don’t, you’re just being overly generous), but I think it transcends that with simple good execution, acting and dialogue. Either that, or I have a gigantic man-crush on Robert Downey Jr. (yes).

Cache: a question of perspective (embed won't work, so all I have is links)

Caché is a disconcerting, uncomfortable and thoroughly unpleasant viewing experience. Normally, this would be an indictment of the film, but with Caché, it is extremely clear that director Michael Haneke has created the exact film he wanted. His filmography consists almost exclusively of films that aim to make the audience feel awful. His 1997 film Funny Games (remade shot-for-shot by Haneke in English 10 years later) is unbelievably horrific because it continually and purposefully makes the viewer feel awful. It is not a horror film that scares you and makes you afraid of things that go bump in the night; instead, it is a film that directly tells the viewer that he is a bad person, and subjects him to a sort of purposeful emotional torture.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbYXvq_auXE (as an example of how much Haneke doesn't like his audience)

Understanding Haneke’s oeuvre is critical in understanding Caché. Caché, like Funny Games or any of his other works, seems to exist as a direct indictment of the viewer. I am not trying to paint Haneke as merely a sadist (although at times I feel like it's true). Indeed, I’ve now subjected myself to three of his films (the equally hard-to-watch The Piano Teacher being the other). Instead, I think Haneke deliberately toys with the viewer’s expectation of what a film will do in order to, in his words, make the viewer a more active participant in watching a film. He deliberately reshapes both narrative and cinematography to make the viewer uncomfortable.

From a cinematographic perspective, Haneke’s work in Caché is incredibly successful. The opening shot, which is just several minutes of people walking and riding by in front of the house, immediately lets the viewer know that this will not be an incredibly fun film. The shot runs for an uncomfortably long period of time (a technique used again and again in Caché) and the credits appear in an incredibly simple matter, just small white text appearing on top of this shot. He deliberately refuses to allow the viewer to subsist on the filming techniques they are used to.

The entire cinematography makes you question, “Who is watching this film?” Normally, the camera can be used to represent a whole variety of perspectives: a character’s viewpoint, an establishing view of the surroundings, or something else. The security tapes sent to Georges (Daniel Auteuil) and Anne (Juliette Binoche) Laurent are clearly being made by someone. However, Caché itself, as a film, consists of the same type of static shots even when the perspective is not supposed to be a tape sent to the Laurents. For example, this sort of long-take occurs during the filming of Georges’ TV show, and the shot itself could not have been taken by any one person, nor could it have feasibly occurred, as the camera itself passes through a wall. This constant distortion of perspective is a central question of the film: who is this “absent one,” as Heath would say, that is seeing all of these shots? My opinion is, after viewing all of his films, that there is no answer, and that Haneke creates these questions only to make the viewer uncomfortable, but that is just an opinion.

However, the question of the “absent one” is not the only way in which Haneke toys with cinematographic convention. He shifts perspective in other ways, such as a violating the 180 degree rule. He uses this to great effect each time the protagonist Georges enters Majid’s (Maurice Bénichou) apartment. The first two times, where the encounters go relatively without incident, Georges enters the hallway from one direction. The last time, when their meeting is much, much more eventful, Georges enters from the other side.

This lack of comfort Haneke has created throughout the whole film delivers a shocking moment in this last scene between Georges and Majid. After spending a large portion of the film concentrating on mundane details, Haneke pulls out a completely genuine surprise. Majid calmly reiterates that he has not been terrorizing Georges, and then slits his own throat. First of all, by using the same calm, stationary long-take he has been using for the mundane details, Haneke makes the scene blend in with all the other boring yet uncomfortable moments we have seen before. Secondly, the method of suicide, and the timing, is so out of the ordinary that the audience almost cannot compute what has happened.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47FWtVp6UEI&translated=1

Haneke also expertly distorts our expectations of what to expect of the narrative. The film seems to establish Georges and Anne as the sympathetic protagonists. Then, it deliberately subverts this by having a scene where Georges has what is essentially a racist outburst towards a black man in the middle of the street. The audience is uncomfortable, as we have already decided to support Georges and Anne. We become more uncomfortable when we learn Georges is responsible for Majid’s poor living situation, as Georges framed Majid as a child and thus put Majid in an orphanage. Although I personally don’t believe Georges situation can be viewed as a critique towards the whole of wealthy society, Haneke certainly succeeds at making his “protagonist” genuinely unlikable, and, in a way, makes the audience feel as though we enabled his actions.

Caché is not a film I would recommend taking a date out on, unless you really don’t like her (and even then, try and be merciful). Nor would I watch it on some lazy Sunday afternoon. It is, however, an effective and interesting film, one that poses some interesting questions both about the nature of viewing film and about the nature of racism in society (although, again, I believe it succeeds moreso as an experiment in watching film). Haneke is a unique director, and deliberately makes his audience feel uncomfortable. Caché is certainly thought-provoking, and it really forces the viewer to examine all of their presumptions about watching film. As for me, I’m okay with seeing a Haneke film every now and again, and then return to more enjoyable films.

Film Review

Just so there is no pretense of objectivity in this review, I must concede that I am an absurdly huge Quentin Tarantino fan. I have not one, but two Pulp Fiction posters in my room, and I’ve seen and enjoyed all of his movies (yes, even Death Proof and Jackie Brown) multiple times. If you find his works overly violent, his long scenes of dialogue pretentious, or (especially) his construction of reality ridiculous, this is not the film for you. Even though Inglourious Basterds is a World War II film, it is more likely to remind you of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, or maybe even Grimm’s Fairy Tales, than The Longest Day.
Now that that’s out of the way, I am very pleased to say that Inglourious Basterds is among Tarantino’s best efforts, perhaps his best since Pulp Fiction. From the moment the opening title card tells you “Once Upon a Time… in Nazi-occupied France,” you know this film will be unlike anything you have seen before, for better or for worse. The titular Basterds are 8 Jewish-American soldiers led by Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt, slightly campy but very funny). They are sent into WWII-era France to kill any and all Nazis they find in the most brutal ways they can (warning: Lt Raine’s introductory demand for 100 Nazi scalps does not go unheeded, and scalping is one of the milder forms of cruelty the Basterds inflict).
These Basterds are, somewhat misleadingly, absent from much of the film, as we follow the two other main characters: Shosanna Dreyfus (a great Melanie Laurent), a French Jew running a Parisian cinema under an assumed identity, and Col. Hans Landa a.k.a. the Jew Hunter (Christoph Waltz), the main antagonist of both Shosanna and the Basterds. They both set up separate plots to kill most of the Nazi high command by burning down Shosanna’s theatre on the premiere night of Joseph Goebbels’s (Slyvester Groth) newest film.
It’s unfortunate that, for the sake of brevity, I can only spend a small amount of time extolling the virtues of Waltz’s performance. Out of the three great leads (Laurent, Pitt, and Waltz), he easily turns in the best performance. He is charming, funny, intelligent, and thus more horrifying than any Nazi I have seen on the big screen. He effortlessly controls the screen, no matter whom he is talking to, or which of his 4 languages he is speaking. The film’s biggest problem may be trying to measure up to the fantastic introductory scene, which is essentially just Waltz controlling a conversation for almost 30 minutes. Waltz’s pitch-perfect performance ensures that, not only does the film’s shocking finale makes sense, but actually seems like the only logical ending.
This is not to say that the other performances don’t hold up. Brad Pitt’s Lt. Aldo Raine may be slightly over-the-top, but this is not a film that cares about restraint. Pitt garners the film’s biggest laughs (and yes, there are many) and fits in perfectly with the idiosyncratic tone Tarantino strives for. Melanie Laurent essentially is the straight women, but she brings an emotional strength to her deeply wounded, vengeful yet still sympathetic Shosanna that makes her the moral center of the film. Out of the supporting cast, Til Schweiger deserves mentioning as the psychopathic German soldier-turned-Basterd whose intense nature is both hysterical and intimidating. Director Eli Roth, best known for his “torture-porn” Hostel films, is utilized effectively by Tarantino, as he has little to do but look gleefully insane, something he does quite well. Also, watch (and listen) for cameos by Mike Myers and Tarantino regulars Samuel L. Jackson and Harvey Keitel.
Stylistically, Quentin Tarantino described Basterds as a spaghetti western about World War II, and I couldn’t agree more. The opening sequence contains a visual homage to John Ford’s The Searchers, and Tarantino uses countless pieces of music by composer Sergio Leone (Once Upon a Time in the West, The Good, The Bad, The Ugly). There are multiple Mexican standoffs in the film, although that is as much a trademark of Tarantino films as it is of Westerns. Admittedly, this is a Tarantino film, so it’s a spaghetti western where characters talk about King Kong and where a David Bowie song indicates the beginning of the final act (yes, Bowie in 1944).
Standing in stark contrast to the very unique tone of the film, its structure is, especially for Tarantino, relatively simple. Time progresses linearly, chapter titles break up the film, and the action takes place in just a few venues. The cinematography is simple yet elegant, often relying on simple shot-reverse shot patterns to establish tension during many conversations. The set design works quite well for the film, as they are all establishments that very well could have existed during WWII, but none of which have a true “war-film” feel. From the opening at a small farmhouse to the closing at an elegant theatre, all of the locales blend to create a war-film that is unlike any you’ve seen before.
As for the narrative itself, it may cause frustration among some viewers. Although the film builds to a fantastic (yet potentially divisive) finale, much of the events that come before may seem irrelevant. This is no way meant to say that the film drags; indeed, it is one of the shortest 2 and a half hour films I’ve ever seen. However, the film’s first and fourth chapters (there are 5) may seem to be almost inconsequential to the grand narrative. While this may be true, they are part of what makes the film great. These self-contained sequences ratchet up the tension so gradually and effectively that I could only sit back and stare in awe. In the first, Col. Landa interrogates a farmer accused of hiding Jews, and watching the tension build, and Tarantino constantly shifts the direction and keeps the audience on their toes. The fourth, a routine bar-scene meeting with a contact gone horribly awry, is miraculously effective as well, although it lacks the character strength that Landa brings to first. On their own, they are both masterful short films. Viewed in the context of the film, they work to effectively show the dangers of WWII.
The major problems some will have with the film are the moral quandaries it poses, both directly and indirectly. Can you, as an audience member, find horrific violence against Nazis not only permissible, but even entertaining? Is it wrong to laugh at a man’s death by baseball bat? Is rewriting history acceptable because it’s the only logical end to the narrative? Tarantino sets up these questions, and then (in my opinion, purposefully) leaves them unanswered. It is not a coincidence that Tarantino inserts Nazis cheering on their own propaganda film in his own enjoyably violent film, nor is it a coincidence that he cast a director (Eli Roth) known for turning violence into pornography in a significant role. It would not be unfair to call him morally irresponsible, treating perhaps the most serious events of the 20th century with such levity and distortion. Such controversies are bound to happen if you make Jewish-Allied soldiers more brutal and sociopathic than the Nazis.
These way Tarantino poses these questions is what I believe is his greatest success. For two and a half hours, the viewer is easily entertained by witty, well-executed dialogue and heart-pounding action. It has all of the upsides of a pure blockbuster film. Upon reflection, though, Basterds appears to be an art film, filled with unorthodox characterizations, moral questions left unanswered, and a complete subversion of expectations. Viewed from this perspective (and I must admit, one could simply believe that Tarantino is merely an amoral “basterd” himself), Basterds is one of the most widely accessible art films ever made.
Should you see Inglourious Basterds? Absolutely. Although the violence and outright butchering of historical fact may offend some, it should not take away from the accomplishments of the film. Tarantino’s dialogue, while perhaps a shade less below both Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs, is still top-notch. It is one of the most entertaining films of the year, and it is equally successful at inspiring debate. Even if you are not a Tarantino fan, you should still see Basterds, if only to see Christoph Waltz’s phenomenal acting job. If you skip it, you will be missing one of the year’s best films, and the year’s best performance.

Cinema Paradiso as a classic narrative

David Bordwell’s “The Art Cinema As a Mode of Film Practice” attempts to provide a clear dichotomy between classic narrative cinema and “art films.” Bordwell is not attempting to address every convention of both types of films, but he does want to provide some basic framework. He gives many distinctions between, but the basic ones are these:
1) Classic Narrative Cinema has clear cause-effect logic, using conventions of editing such as the 30 and 180 degree rules (no cuts between two character should be more than 180 degrees or less than 30 degrees)
2) Art films, conversely, have much looser linkages between cause and effect
3) Fundamentally, art cinema motivates its narrative by realism and authorial expressivity
In my mind, there is no doubt that, using Bordwell’s description, Cinema Paradiso is a classical Hollywood film. Indeed, the entire point of the movie is to evoke the glory of those classic films. From the score by Ennio Morricone, who wrote the scores for Sergio Leone’s “spaghetti western” films and many, many others, to the resemblance Elena (Agnese Nano) bears to famous Hollywood sirens such as Rita Hayworth, every detail of the film illuminates the wonder created by classic cinema. The Paradiso, a theatre in a small Sicilian town, does not show Ingmar Bergman or Michaelangelo Antonioni films. It shows comedies by Buster Keaton and Charlie Chapman. Cinema Paradiso, the film and the theatre, is preoccupied with the wide appeal and simple beauty of classical films.

Yes, this may all be true, but can’t Cinema Paradiso be an art film about classical films? While this could indeed be true, it is not true of Cinema Paradiso. Cinema Paradiso may play with some of the conventions of a classical narrative, but it follows them nonetheless. At least in the shortened version, the film’s love story is not about Elena. Elena is a transient part of Salvatore’s (played, in increasing order of age, by Salvatore Cascio, Marco Leonardi, and Jacques Perrin) life. She appears in the middle of his life, his film, and leaves far before the conclusion, both in terms of the film’s length and the span of his life. His true love is the cinema. His final embrace is not with some elusive woman, but with the many embraces in movies themselves.
The narrative structure of the film is, while not strictly linear, certainly close to the structure of traditional Hollywood films. The film’s use of narrative space is traditional, and its edits are never noticeably abnormal or disorienting. As for its slightly unorthodox time structure, classics such as “Citizen Kane” utilize similar flashback structures to show the life of their protagonists. Perhaps the only sequence that toys with our idea of time is the very brief sequence of Salvatore in the military. However, brief montages that represent longer periods of time are common in Hollywood cinema. Again, “Citizen Kane” springs to mind, but the technique is a common one, used in films as different as “Rocky IV” (and, incidentally, almost every other Sylvester Stallone film) and “Casablanca.” The time structure of “Cinema Paradiso” is quite straightforward.

So, if “Cinema Paradiso” has a straightforward usage of narrative time and space as well as a love story (albeit a slightly atypical one), does it fit in with Bordwell’s fundamental dichotomy between “art films” and classical narrative cinema? Namely, is it concerned with realism and authorial expressivity? Well, “Cinema Paradiso” does not seem to be preoccupied with realism as Borwell describes it. “Cinema Paradiso’s” narrative is nothing if not focused, with a very clear progression of action. The events are completely realistic, yes, but the movie deals with Toto’s grander problems, his ultimate destiny as a successful director. As for the psychological reality, while the film certainly deals with the internal emotional conflicts Toto has, it does not preoccupy itself with any sort of existential angst that lies at the heart of art films such as “The Seventh Seal.” So while the film is certainly realistic, it does not have the same sense of realism that art films have, at least as Bordwell describes it.
The final definition of an art film, as opposed to a classic narrative, is the most troublesome when it comes to Cinema Paradiso. Does the film have authorial expressivity? Absolutely. The film is clearly a personal one. And how could it not be? Director Giuseppe Tornatore is making a film about a director who loves film. Even if the events are not drawn from his own life, there necessarily are some parallels between Salvatore and himself. However, does the film have those specific flourishes that makes Tornatore unique? This is not an easy question, as Tornatore is not a tremendously well-known director (at least on the level of a Fellini or a Woody Allen, perhaps a “Hollywood art film” director), nor have I seen any of his other movies. Judging from this film alone, though, he does not seem to use music, cuts or character in any very unique way. He doesn’t have a signature that I can discern, unlike, say, Stanley Kubrick using happy songs in depressing situations.


The unfortunate part of writing such a specific blog is that I cannot fully explain how much I love this film. It has such an emotional impact (especially the bittersweet final scene, although it is much more impactful if you have seen the director’s cut, where you find out about a link between Elena and Alfredo (Phillippe Noiret)), and the performances are almost uniformly fantastic. I actually never got to mention the beautiful relationship between Alfredo and Salvatore. In fact, I never spoke of Alfredo once before this concluding paragraph (eek!)! It clearly is a piece of classic narrative cinema, but regardless of what type of movie it is, it is one that anyone and everyone should see (not to sound like a broken record, but preferably the director’s cut. Still, both versions are fantastic.)

Fight Club and Film's manipulation of narrative

In Walter Benjamin’s essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Benjamin argues that the camera itself shows us events and details we would not, or perhaps even could not, otherwise see. In essence, he is saying that the camera, with its ability to change frame rates and shift focal points, alters our own sense of perception. The close-up on merchandise, the moment of impact of a bullet, and the momentary addition of images give film a power no other medium has. We the viewer can now view events in a different way than we could even in real life
David Fincher’s “Fight Club” illustrates film’s power to manipulate our senses in a multitude of ways. One notable example is his use of spliced images. He splices in images of Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt) at 4 points in the film before his character is revealed. These initial images are used both to demonstrate the deteriorating effect that The Narrator’s (Edward Norton) insomnia has had on his mental state, and to force the viewer to realize that the reality of the film is different from our own reality. The events shown in “Fight Club” are divorced what actually happens, and these deliberately unrealistic depictions at the beginning of the film prepare the viewer for what will occur later. Tyler Durden appears as a hallucination to the view, and, in fact, Tyler is nothing more than an illusion. The first appearance of Tyler is shot from The Narrator’s point of view, one of the many hints the film give us that Tyler is not real.
The other example of spliced imagery is the spliced in image of a penis that occurs twice. There is a scene where Tyler and the Narrator directly describe to the audience the process of splicing hard-core pornography into a children’s film. This scene allows the reality of the film to merge with our own, as we know that the film we are watching is describing the process of how film itself can be altered. “Fight Club” is describing how “Fight Club” is toying with our senses. The end of the film references this scene by splicing in a single frame of a penis just before the end credits. The fourth wall is collapsed, with meta-commentary layered on top of meta-commentary.
The idea of the fourth wall is deliberately toyed with. The wall is certainly broken (the audience is directly addressed at multiple times, including Tyler’s explanation of film’s splicing), but it is not as simple as that. It is not just Woody Allen pulling out Marshall McLuhan. It is much more complex. The film references its own techniques, and does not show its own reality for much of the film. Our reality, the film’s fake-reality (its depiction of Tyler), and its true reality are all blended, and we the viewer are expected to understand which is which. The techniques that distort reality are there to confuse the viewer, and thus create a greater shock when the revelation of Tyler’s identity occurs. The collapse of the fourth wall forces us to constantly reevaluate what is real. Tyler becomes not just a figment of The Narrator’s imagination, but a figment of our own as well.
The narrative of “Fight Club” is a great counterpoint to Germaine Dulac’s claim that promoting narrative as the essence of film is a “criminal error.” While it is true that film is limited in the time it can spend exposing narrative, its methods of doing so can be far superior to other media. Twist endings can be done much more effectively in the context of film. This is due to the fact that film can deliberately show us just the misleading details, and reveal the surprise in more natural ways. Instead of a clunky expository sentence, a pan to the name of a sled or the changing of a man’s gait can change our understanding of the narrative completely. Narrative can be the essence of film, and Fight Club’s distortion of reality shows us how film can alter narrative in ways that other media cannot.
Walter Benjamin is correct in stating that the camera can change the way we perceive reality. The reality presented in “Fight Club” is deliberately adjusted by unnatural movement, spliced images and even when the camera becomes a direct line of communication from the film to the audience. This toying with reality is essential to the narrative itself, as it distracts the audience from the otherwise revealing details about the nature of who Tyler Durden is. The film’s narrative works solely because it is a film. Reality is shifting, and thus the revelation about Tyler becomes much more impactful. The working of this narrative shows how film can uniquely present a set of events in a way that would be much less effective in other media. Film can change reality in a way unlike any other art.