The Usual Suspects (1995, Bryan Singer; Cinematographer: Newton Thomas Sigel)
“And like that, he’s gone.”
Ill Stills 2011-2013.
Posts tagged cinephile
Nicholas Jarecki’s Arbitrage and Power as Negative Space
Bad things will happen, Robert Miller explains to a news journalist in the opening scene of Nicholas Jarecki’s Arbitrage, though he’s not worried. Bad things happen all the time, and they do not necessitate loss, because loss is a swimming shark, and until the shark has stopped swimming, it is not dead. In the finance world, this is called an arbitrage, in which the difference of market prices means a shark never has to stop swimming, and taking a hit in one corner might just mean turning a profit in another. The money stays shuffling, and no one loses. Ideally.
Miller (Richard Gere) is the arbitrageur of Jarecki’s film, and manipulating finances in and out of accounts and hedge funds in his own self-interest is the character’s raison d’être, but Jarecki is also concerned with the arbitrage of power, who has it, who is pretending to have it, and the stratagems necessary to sustain it. When Miller commits manslaughter and flees the scene, he immediately begins moving pieces off his life around, acquiring new confidants, burying his weakness, and steadily moving forward, eyes always on the prize.
During a scene in which rugged detective Bryer (a composed, threatening Tim Roth) interrogates Miller for the first time, Miller’s tells are more than obvious, jittery nerves, inconsistent story, and a throbbing side he can’t help clutching. Bryer knows, but that’s okay, too, because that market, the criminal investigation market, it only has a fraction of a sliver of a window of time to make a power grab, and by then, Miller will have reallocated and moved on. Besides, sometimes an arbitrageur needs only to appear to hide a weakness. If a major business executive is unable to fill a $412,000 gap of misappropriated funds, well, then jettison the business to someone else. They will, of course, notice, but a deal is a deal, after all, and besides, that business can just be moved again. The bluff is infinite; everything else is expendable.
In all the chaos of contextualization, determining who, if anybody, in Jarecki’s film has the upper hand, becomes exceedingly difficult to parse. Cinematographer Yorick Le Saux, whose masterful work on 2010’s Carlos inspired the very first Ill Stills, revels in this confusion, deconstructing traditional visual binaries of power (who’s sitting/standing, who’s driving/riding) in moments of narrative tension in order to make the viewer question the impact of environment on control, and vice versa. When Miller meets with his daughter, Brooke (Brit Marling) in Central Park, she refuses to sit with him, a classic business bluff, but Le Saux keeps his camera on Miller, and Brook’s head is decapitated from the frame. There is no question as to who will come out above water.
Elsewhere, Le Saux deftly complicates the power dynamics inside vehicles through light filters and askew angles. Are those who drive more powerful than those who ride? In one situation, say, a police officer who has picked up a suspect, yes, but when the environment changes, so do the rules, and a weakness (not being in control), becomes a strength (the luxury of knowing how control is limited). This is how Miller scapegoat, Jimmy Grant (Nate Parker), the getaway driver, and Jimmy Grant, the police suspect, locked in the back of Bryer’s car (or Miller’s car), can occupy the same sphere of limited agency, and how Miller, cruising along behind the wheel, just before a horrific car accident, can later become Miller, plotting in the back of a limousine with his lawyer. The plot? To uncover Bryer’s manipulation of a traffic camera photo that would have pinned Jimmy Grant as Miller’s getaway driver. The pieces shift and shift, and the bubble strains, but does not burst.
The film’s climactic exchange isn’t between Miller and Bryer, or Miller and Jimmy, but between Miller and his wife, Ellen (Susan Sarandon), in their bedroom. Ellen knows everything, and threatens to expose Miller to the police if he does not sign away his company. Miller contemplates his options like a true financier. Which market offers more stability, the domestic or the legal? Will Ellen risk conflation of the two, or is she bluffing? Jarecki and Le Saux again volley the question back to the audience with the film’s most striking image, the couple, in their stark white room, divided by their marriage bed, as Miller considers the contract. The negative space between them is overwhelmingly present, a maelstrom of terrible power with no shape, and no direction, hovering between the film’s final two players.
Jarecki’s dénouement offers no catharsis. Miller and family are at a benefit dinner in his honor. It’s impossible to tell who has folded to whom, but one thing is certain, in this environment, suited up, among colleagues, among money, Miller is God. He kisses his scorned wife and daughter, who struggle to keep smiling in the face of such blatant hypocrisy, and he strides to the podium, his back to Le Saux’s camera. Miller is centered, and his is steady, and the people in the crowd, well, they’re just pieces, ready to be moved. Le Saux switches to a medium shot, and facing the lens, Miller’s bravado is uncanny. Even now, he is swimming, thriving. He goes to speak. Cut to black.
Warrior: The Intimate Spaces of Pugilism
Two men circle and jab, lock bodies, and careen to the floor. Sweat drips over swollen eyes. Lungs take desperate, cutting breaths. Bones bend to fracture. The audience, seething swells of testosterone and rage, goad annihilation. Nervous television viewers strain through their hi-def, through the snark of announcers and roar of the crowd, through the thin, wire cage, where blood is spraying, jonesing for a drop of immediacy. Inside that cage, one man will rise victorious and one will not, simple as that. Outside, the city bricks ooze poverty and rancor, and the spaces in which a human being can face another human being recede to point zero. This is the America of Gavin O’Conner’s Warrior, an America in which the men who fought to the bone integrating themselves into this country never learned to stop beating the shit out of each other, while the country industrialized, digitalized, moved on.
The film’s two protagonists (antagonists?) are estranged brothers, Tommy and Brendan (Tom Hardy and Joel Edgerton), but the film’s singular title is no misnomer. The essence of mixed martial arts is reductive. There is no place for convolution, no time for the battery of tangled relationships that exist outside of the cage. A warrior’s opponent is nothing, a momentary blip in a solipsistic ascension to Godhood, and even in defeat, he is safely inside himself. These cages, the warrior needs them.
Tommy is the warrior, in the reductive sense, AWOL from the Marine Corp, refusing to engage with anybody, with any conflict, that threatens to become emotionally present. Tommy’s deadbeat, alcoholic father, Paddy (Nick Nolte, whose beautiful sad-sackery makes me rue the cancellation of HBO’s Luck all the more), on the road to recovery, struggles for reconciliation with his sons, but for Tommy, Paddy is merely a tool toward his end goal. For Brendan, Paddy is a non-entity, the bad taste of a past that’s best forgotten.
Brendan, who, surprise, surprise, will oppose Tommy in the film’s decisive MMA competition, is the warrior’s antithesis, a man so multifaceted that he is ruled by the emotion that combat requires necessary to jettison. His is a plural existence, one of the family, supporting and connecting with a wife and daughter, connecting to students, connecting to friends, and one as a fighter, alone, hurtling toward decimation, or redemption. Masanobu Takayanagi, Warrior’s director of photography, finds an aesthetic niche in the fundamental voyeurism of sport, extending the scopophilic yearning, and its inherent barriers, to the fighters’ most private encounters. When Brendan confesses to his wife, Tess (Jennifer Morrison), that he’s moonlighting as a parking lot prizefighter, Takayanagi positions the camera outside the bathroom doorway, setting up an emotional bulwark between Brendan and the audience, the breaching of which becomes both an invasion of, and invitation to, his moment of intimacy and the space it occupies.
Compare this to the film’s opening scene, in which Paddy returns home to find an inebriated Tommy waiting on his stoop. Despite the fact that this is the only glimpse of each other the men have had since Tommy’s childhood, O’Conner and Takayanagi are careful not to include the two in focus in the same shot. The film’s title card, bold white lettering that appears after Paddy invites Tommy inside, alerts the viewer that this is the film’s first bout, and one that perhaps takes precedent over sport. The camera here, and throughout the entirety of the movie, is handheld, personal, but isolating. The audience dances around the cage, rarely inside.
Of course, there is redemption, both for Tommy and Paddy, and Tommy and Brendan, through battle. Tommy’s admonishment of Paddy in a casino puts Paddy back on the wagon (the Paddy wagon?), which is what Tommy has subconsciously wanted from moment one, to return home to find the villain he left, and face, and overcome him. Paddy as born-again twelve-stepper was unexpected to, unacceptable for, Tommy, so he keeps Paddy at arm’s length, until Paddy is roped back for the KO. Paddy’s relapse is a disheartening moment, or would be if the same tactics that O’Conner has utilized to distance his audience in the film’s first two acts hadn’t sterilized its characters completely, complicated by the fact that at the moment of Paddy’s defeat, Tommy embraces his father, for the first time, perhaps ever, and comforts him at the nadir of his malady. Tommy has won, and he moves forward, on to Brendan, toward actualization, in only way actualization is understood by impoverished young males – fighting.
Brendan forces his empathy into the cage with Tommy, despite Brendan’s trainer screaming that Tommy is not his brother, and that Brendan should do right by the warrior’s credo and destroy with prejudice the object that stands in his way. To Brendan, as warrior, there can be no familial past with Tommy, because there can be no Tommy-as-person, but when Brendan takes his brother to the floor, he offers up love, in the immediate sense, apart from any sort of biased forgiveness of past wrongs. Tommy taps.
Again, through defeat, there is rapprochement. The brothers exit the cage, Brendan’s arm around Tommy, compassionate. They move straight toward the camera, one that has found stability, until they are past it, and that final barrier to connection is overcome. The two share the frame, pointedly. Bloodied and shaking, they are exhausted, but unified.
Ivan’s Childhood: Reflections Beyond the River
There are things that will always be out of our grasps. Some of these things are tangible objects, a beautiful man or woman, a better job, more money, and the struggle seems all the more fruitless because you know, deep inside, these things can be obtained, have been by others. But not you. Then, there are those dreams for which we reach that we will never touch, impossible goals, conceivable, but, ultimately unattainable, and the struggle seems all the more beautiful for it. Andrey Tarkovskiy’s Ivan’s Childhood exists in this dreamscape. It is a film of smoke, of water, of substances that refuse to take shape. It is the past that can never be altered. It is the future that will never come.
Still, we reach.
Ivan (Nikolai Burlyayev) is a child of war, a soldier, courageous and agile and headstrong the way only an adolescent can be. He crosses through enemy swamps undetected. He refuses to cough up answers. Around him, his temporary guardians plot to send Ivan to military school, away from the front, and the inherent dangers of the battlefield, but Ivan will not be swayed. He has no concept of Ivan as child. There are vague recollections of youth that come to him in dreams, in which he’s playing with his mother, or a young girl who might be his sister, but these moments are gone. These people are dead. Ivan finds counterpoint in the company of adults. Will he be the braggadocios Captain Kholin? Or, perhaps he is more like the young Galtsev. Director of Photography Vadim Yusov shoots Galtsev and Ivan as equals from the moment the two are introduced, and Ivan stands tall in frame against Galtsev’s interrogations. Ivan meets his gaze. They are doubles. Later, as Ivan tells his story of escape from boarding school, Galtsev is seen in the mirror, listening intently, as if he, himself, is Ivan, reflecting back a decade, to some distant past, when he was someone else entirely.
Or maybe Ivan will turn out like the derelict he meets while attempting to go AWOL. The man is a crazy soul in wont of a nail, which he has misplaced ages ago. Still, he searches amongst the rubble of the house where his family, like Ivan’s, has been killed. “Oh, Lord,” he says. “When will this all end?” He locks himself behind what’s left of his gate. For him the war is lost. It has been for some time.
When Ivan dreams, he is staring down a well with his mother, looking at the impossible reflection of a star in the shape of a cross. He reaches, and his hands are in the water, so close, but the star is a mirage. Even in his sweetest dreams of youth, salvation is an abstract concept. “You needn’t get so worked up over the smallest things,” a voice advises, and now Ivan’s mother is gone, too, has become a symbol, far above Ivan, who, trapped by his longings, cannot escape the well he’s crawled into.
Ivan is a symbol, though, too. He is youth, and he is vitality, and for this reason Kholin (Valentin Zubkov), against all better judgment of, hey, having a prepubescent boy on the front-line fighting Germans is a stupid idea, keeps him close. When Ivan is around, there is still some semblance of hope and innocence. He is a glimpse beyond the war, perhaps to Kholin’s own childhood, when things were simpler. Kholin is trapped also, exhausted by battle, by disappointment and death. A beautiful nurse, Masha (Valentina Malyavina), catches his eye and Kholin pursues her in the woods, but there is nothing genial about his seduction. He is verbally aggressive, physically imposing. When the two kiss, it is against Masha’s will, and Kholin holds her tight, above a deep crevasse, as if, could he will himself to let go, she would disappear forever, perhaps never having existed to begin with.
A song, played in a devastated bunker on a battered phonograph, reminds the men of her. “They tell Masha not to go beyond the river” a voice croons, as Kholin and Galtsev sit in silence. “They tell Masha not to love the young man.” It is a song of transgression, of lost innocence, an innocence which Kholin destroyed in the woods, which the war destroyed in Kholin. The real Masha enters the room while the song plays, but Masha is being transferred, and Ivan has disappeared, and only the record is there to comfort them that, yes, at one time, there was more to life than this terrible bunker, this omnipresence of war, the quantity of which can only be measured by its own stinking void of loss.
The film ends with two juxtaposing sequences. The first is documentary footage of the aftermath of World War II, blown out buildings, corpses lining the street. The wife and daughters of the infamous Nazi, Joseph Goebbels, whom he poisoned with cyanide, lay next to his charred body. Ivan is now just a photograph in on a report, disposed from whatever file it was kept in. He’s been captured, tortured, killed. What did they expect?
Part of Ivan, though, is elsewhere, on a pristine beach, with his mother. He drinks from a bucket, a body of water easily consumed, contained, not like the well with its illusion of heaven, or the river of the song with its mysterious dangers, or the swamp, which looks so much like the sexual awaking of the woods, but offers only gunfire and bloodshed, or the ocean Ivan runs along in his dream, or in his death, chasing a young girl, his sister, his mother, Masha, until he outruns her (and what’s he chasing now?), his arm outstretched, so pathetic, so inexperienced, and we see ourselves in him, and he is real.
Real Talk: Before Sunrise and the Connection of Nostalgia
Three months into 2013, and already one of the most buzzed about films of the year is Richard Linklater’s long awaited follow up to his Sunrise trilogy, Before Midnight. Do I care? It’s been over a decade since I first fell in love with Linklater’s vérité style of urgent philosophizing, characters frustrated with identity, and society, and growing up, and wanting to talk endlessly about it all. Like a lot of high school students, I connected deeply with this search, and knew that somewhere inside the confluent streams of ideas and voices, maybe there would be answers, maybe even the, capital-A, Answer.
So, I bought every Linklater film available, most of which I still own, The Newton Boys gathering dust in a stack against the wall, and subjected my closest friends to repeated basement screenings of Waking Life and Dazed and Confused. I shelled out forty pounds and took a date to the premier of Fast Food Nation (terrible, terrible idea), and sat rapt at an inspirational lecture Linklater gave on filmmaking. When I finished Before Sunset, one rainy afternoon my freshman year of college, I was inflicted with a strange melancholia that lasted for days, and thought, yes, this is love.
Smash cut, 2013. Linklater hasn’t made an interesting film in six years, and I’m staring at a snap-case DVD edition of Before Sunrise (there’s even a full screen option!). Ethan Hawke’s disgusting 90s goatee lurches dangerously close to Julie Delpy’s face, and seems to be a terrible harbinger for a one-night-stand, philosophical or otherwise. What did I see in these two? Was this romantic in the 90s? Did it move me then? Would it now? What was the deal with goatees?
And the DVD is in, and the train is moving, and an old German couple are arguing, and it’s jarring because there’s no subtitles, and Jesse (Hawke) and Celine (Delpy) are about to begin a romance that will span three films. The two put aside their pretentious novels and get to talking in the dining car, and despite looking like a junkie from a 1950s PSA, Jesse convinces Celine that she should impetuously get off the train and hang out with him in Vienna until morning. I guess charisma goes a long way.
Delpy is the much stronger actor of the two, as Hawke sort of mugs and makes awkward transitions between thoughts, but for some reason I’m completely engaged in these two young lovers, younger than me now, who are so hungry for self-discovery they throw caution to the wind at every chance. Let’s talk to strangers and visit a graveyard and make out, because who knows about anything? Life is a swirling orgasm of excitement and ennui and you might as well get your kicks in while you can because the other three hundred and sixty four days you’ll probably be parked in front of MTV with a bong and a bowl of cereal watching popular music piss itself down the drain. Ah, to be young again.
Sunrise has more to offer than nostalgia, however. Though Jesse and Celine’s colloquies, which are often fascinating in themselves, take up ninety percent of the screen time, Linklater uses subtle visual and editing techniques to explore the nature of communication in a vague though impactful manner. The tactic of dropping an audience into the film during a foreign conversation is given extra merit midway through the movie at a restaurant filled with foreign conversation. Cinematographer Lee Daniel, whose perfunctory work on Linklater’s walking and talking pictures always keeps dialogue in the foreground, lingers on various couples speaking French and German and English, each exchange as important as the last. While this is a trick that emulates a similar scene in Linklater’s breakout, Slacker, the global setting of Before Sunrise, and the restaurant in particular, takes the film briefly out of its own closed circuit. In the morning, a sterile tracking shot, indicative of the couple’s reemergence into “real time,” follows Jesse and Celine to a cellar window where, inside, a man is playing Bach on a harpsichord. The camera cuts to the couple’s POV, in their naïve voyeurism, and the sense of magic is rekindled. Celine and Jesse dance to his music, and the man plays away, unaware that right above him hearts are beating in ¾ time.
Perhaps this isn’t an accurate depiction of life, or love. It’s not the life, or love, I know, anyhow, with its miasmas of antagonism and confusion. Love, as a whole, is too complex for one night of romance, too complex for romance in general, probably. Jesse and Celine aren’t in love, no, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t truth in their infatuation, in their passion for life, and each other, and themselves. This is just one moment, a marvelous moment when two people meet and anything can happen, when the mystery of life seems to contradict everything else, every harsh reality, every disappointment, and open itself up, and in six months, in ten years, in twenty years, who knows? Who knows about anything?
Ill Stills Episode Six – The Grand Oscar Month Podcast
In episode six, Kevin Hinman and Arison Cain give Oscar Month a glorious send off by venting their frustrations about Argo, the Academy’s penchant for blandness, and why the sassy old man archetype is as uninspired as a little kid who swears. Also, bad puns galore and a third act twist that’s sure to disappoint almost everyone. It’s an Ill Stills podcast for the ages!
Spoiler level: none.
Rebel Without a Pulse,
OSCAR MONTH: BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY NOMINEE 2012 – ANNA KARENINA
In 2007, director Joe Wright and collaborating cinematographer Seamus McGarvey delivered one of the finest long takes that film had seen in quite some time, a five minute ballet of violence on a war-torn beach, the centerpiece of Atonement. McGarvey was nominated for an Academy Award, but as fate would have it, he was in contention against Janusz Kaminski, Robert Elswit, and Roger Deakins, twice. Any other year, it would have been a fighting battle, but 2007 was an uncanny testament to visual storytelling. This year, Seamus McGarvey is back in the ring with Anna Karenina, Joe Wright’s latest, and while the odds are stacked against him (again in the form of Kaminski and Deakins), McGarvey deserves the win, having pulled out all the stops to turn a thrifty, set-locked period piece into a tour de force of movement and momentum, rivaling anything in the lauded Atonement, five-minute Steadicam shot included.
Wright, taking a break from the stark pallet of The Soloist and Hanna, reaches back to his David Lean and Baz Luhrmann inspired roots, indulging in a bevy of color and sound, elevating Leo Tolstoy’s emotionally complex story of adultery and faith to operatic heights. Whereas to achieve the unique visual rhythm of Life of Pi, Ang Lee and Claudio Miranda experimented with several aspect ratios, Wright and McGarvey’s method utilizes the small, but elaborate, set designs of Katie Spencer to frame the characters in shot. Anna (Keira Knightley, a woman made to be on screen, aesthetically, like some lost beauty from the French New Wave) plays with her sister’s daughter in a miniature palace, the walls of which appear to box Anna into the standard 1.37:1, a suffocating square of domestic space. McGarvey’s camera reveals restraint in every room, in the rectangles of doorways, in the calculated gaze of Oblonsky (Matthew Macfadyen), through the crook of a statue, as he watches a group of young girls leave a schoolhouse. In the thinnest of bedroom mirrors, Anna is waif-like, a sliver of the woman she once thought she was. When the film cuts to a party or a horse race, there is the suggestion of space, but as McGarvey’s dollies continue to remind the audience, the entire world of Anna Karenina is a set. For the eponymous heroine, escape is impossible.
There is no better illustration of this than during the spectacular ball at which Anna first gives herself over to the sexual wiles of the scumstachioed Count Vronsky (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) on the dance floor. In another long take, and the film often gives the impression of being a succession of long takes, as set pieces are repeatedly removed, and erected, on screen to make way, and articulate, the fluidity of McGarvey’s camera, the lovers glide effortlessly through a room of dancers, frozen in anticipation, who dare to move only when the couple, and the scandal, has passed. Vronsky lifts Anna, and the camera rotates (and there is nothing obnoxious or reckless about it, there is only McGarvey’s elegance and composure) and moves in for a close-up on Anna, her features boiling with erotic tension, before pulling back to reveal a void. The dancers have left, the light dims, and there is only Vronsky and Anna in the dark, and etiquette be damned because for a brief interlude, it is perfect. Then the crowd rushes back and scorned Kitty (Alicia Vikander) is sick with anger, and her stares are whips, whips, whips of the camera, and everyone is gossiping, and their moment of abandon is now fraught with confusion and tension, and yes, suffocation. Anna breaks off (mid-song, total faux pas), and storms out, but there’s that mirror, and its distorted reflection, and what’s that noise? It sounds like a train. It sounds powerful, phallic, and unstoppable.
However, there is space for one, Levin (Domhnall Gleeson), lovelorn landlord and Tolstoy surrogate, a character who exists outside of the restrictive sets, in the vast planes of the country where he pines and toils and comes to understand himself and God. After Kitty rejects Levin’s awkward marriage proposal, the suitor steps out onto the stage and, finding the theater empty, turns his back with defiance. The rear doors open and Levin is outside, in the snow, heading toward his humble country home, while around him, peasants schlep bundles of hay, and he searches for a connection in their eyes. There is freedom in his loneliness, and if he could only step far enough away, past the limits of society where Anna and Vronsky live locked, trapped, struggling in vain against social mores, the world could finally embrace him, and he it.
The last image of the film is one of the most striking of the year. Anna’s husband, Alexi (Jude Law) enjoys a contemplative day in the country with his two children. The sky is blue and the pale green grass, flecked with white flowers, sways lazily in the breeze. Then, McGarvey cuts to a wide shot, the theater, overflowing with country grass and flowers, singing with country wind. The rear doors are open, and Alexi’s moment of peace is contextualized beyond the stage, a stage that will always exist, but one that is ever changing, ever evolving, with new sets and costumes and actresses, with new rules. The play goes on and on, indefinitely, hurtling with an ageless momentum, but every once in a great while it nurtures a spark of life, and there is something like silence in the air, a pause in the proceedings, and outside the sun is shining, and inside the sun is shining.
OSCAR MONTH: BEST BLACK & WHITE CINEMATOGRAPHY 1954 – ON THE WATERFRONT
Proving that integrity still had some sway in the Academy following the game changing introduction of widescreen, Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront, bursting with urban grit in the standard ratio of 1.37:1, swept the Oscars in 1955, taking home eight awards, including Best Black & White Cinematography. Director of photography Boris Kaufman (who would later work with lead Marlon Brando in Lumet’s The Fugitive Kind) finds incredible strength in subtlety, never forcing a real moment in favor of technique, allowing each scene to unfold naturally before his lens. Critics site Kaufman’s cool ease during the taxicab confrontation, and his use of angles during Karl Malden’s famous monologue as examples of the quintessential Waterfront style, but the essence of Kaufman’s approach, and Kazan’s direction, is in the set-up, and this is nowhere better illuminated than in Brando’s one on one scenes with Eva Marie Saint in which convivial conversation barely masks the couple’s grief, rage, and desire.
After whisking Edie (Marie Saint) away from a brutal political bust-up by corrupt union workers, Terry (Brando) probes Edie with innocuous questions about her parochial schooling, as if men weren’t bleeding in the streets a few hundred yards away, as if Terry wasn’t partly responsible for the death of Edie’s brother, Joey. A homeless man approaches, stopping between the two, and asks for change. He recognizes Edie, and gives condolences, and he recognizes Terry, and knows what he’s done. He calls Terry a bum. It’s a small world, and everyone is connected, and this fact wedges itself between Terry and Edie from the first moment. Terry can bridge this gap only by denying the horrible truth, to Edie and to himself.
When the two are finally alone, at the fence above the PATH tracks, Terry is able to exert his nonchalant machismo in full force, a machismo which ignites Edie’s blossoming sexuality. When Terry recedes into the background, Kaufman’s camera stays with Edie, her mind a whir of conflicting emotions. Edie eventually, cautiously, joins him, but as one scene dissolves into the next, she looks back at the camera, to the safe distance at which she was standing only a minute before.
Later, in a dank gangster swill-hole, after Edie has downed her first whiskey, Terry expounds on his nihilistic philosophies. Here, Terry is raw, and the smoldering power he employed above the train tracks, where his raised arm threatened to embrace Edie at any moment, has almost completely dissipated. When Terry abruptly denies culpability in Joey’s murder, Edie begins to break down, but so does Terry, as he kneels by Edie’s side imploring her to drink her beer. The scene parallels a similar offer at Waterfront’s opening, when Terry’s brother Charlie attempts to buy Terry a drink immediately after Joey’s death. It’s an offer of compliance, to play “deaf and dumb” and cool it with that morality talk. Get drunk. Stay quiet.
Boris Kaufman keeps Brando in sharp focus, lingering on his pained face as he tries to force Edie to drink, physically raising the glass to her lips, but Edie is unresponsive and Marie Saint’s foreground image is blurred. Her grief is both enigmatic and eerily familiar to Terry, who lets the glass down pathetically as he struggles to comprehend this woman sitting in front of him. The shot cuts back to Edie briefly before she gets up, assured that Terry would help the situation if he could. Terry, alone, still kneeling, broods with humiliation and anger.
The turning point in the relationship occurs on the train tracks, beyond the fence at which Terry and Edie’s casual flirtation previously halted. Terry implicates himself in Joey’s murder and Kazan and Kauffman pull out all the stylistic stops as the tension that’s been building between Terry and Edie finally breaks open. Beginning with a wide shot of the two standing at odds behind a heap of rubble, Kauffman goes in for a series of close-ups, a technique used only sparingly up to this point. Steam hisses violently, drowning out a confession the audience doesn’t need repeated. Edie covers her ears, the noise is too much, and she covers her mouth, a twisted call back to the “deaf and dumb” motto of the dockworkers, and maybe she screams, but we can’t hear it over all that cacophony.
This is the genius of On the Waterfront, its set-ups of unpredictable stillness, quiet scenes pregnant with violence, violent ones pregnant with meaning. The film ends on a bombastic high note, one that might not be entirely earned, but rousing nonetheless, as the noise and the passion and the angst come colliding together in a spectacular show of defiance. “Am I on my feet?” Terry asks in the finale, as he staggers forward, bloodied but not broken. He is sure of only one thing now – integrity at every cost.
nb – the stills presented above are from a widescreen presentation of On the Waterfront, and do not accurately represent the image as originally intended.
…and say she steps out of the shadows, and there’s her holster, empty, as it seems. When she comes in for a kiss, you step back, or she steps forward again. This could be a dance, and now you’re kissing, too, but only because you’re buying time, because you’re afraid. Because where’s the pistol?
This is Noir Week, an artistic conspiracy between Ill Stills, Arison Cain, and Magnum Opus, and if you follow the trail long enough, you just might catch a killer, or a spy, or a bullet. This week, we’ll be seeped in the tenebrous pulp of film noir, giving Ill Stills readers a crash course in femme fatales, the denigration of the American justice system, and feverous, Word War II paranoia. As always, be wary of spoilers, though no amount of information could ever ruin these classics. Before we begin, do yourself a favor and check out early Ill Stills noir (The Third Man, Rebecca) and neo-noir (Memento, Fallen Angels) posts.
DAY ONE: Fritz Lang’s Fury and the Immolation of the Old Guard
In, 1934, following a meeting with then propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels, Fritz Lang fled a Germany teeming with Nazi corruption and careening toward a war the horrors of which the United States public, and government, was fervently attempting to ignore. Lang had been labeled a Jew. Another year in Germany, he could have been head of UFA, as Goebbels promised, or he could have been killed, shot dead for a word, one with which he did not even identify. Escape was a Hobson’s choice.
So, it’s no surprise that Lang’s first film in the United States would be Fury, in which the justice system collapses on itself, and men are (hard) boiled down to one of two words - innocent, or guilty. Spencer Tracy plays Joe Wilson, aw shucking his way through an honest life, when a police officer pulls a gun on, and incarcerates him. The evidence? Five dollars of counterfeit cash and a pocket full of peanuts. This is happening, America, Lang said with his lens. These are dark time, America, he screamed with his mise-en-scène. That aw-shucks shit ain’t gonna cut it, he threatened as, on screen, even the public has turned against Wilson, defenseless in his jail cell, while the swell of something monstrous mutated overseas.
In a small town, in the heart of the United States, a lynch mob forms and burns Joe Wilson alive, because, to them, he’s guilty, and after all, they must protect their town from these internal threats, threats who may even seem familiar, like a forgotten face from the grocery store, or the man who pumps the gasoline, but they are not familiar. They are others. Now, two new words are worth killing over, “us” and “them.”
Wilson isn’t dead, however, and in a quintessentially noir moment, brilliantly captured by cinematographer Joseph Ruttenberg, he arrives in the doorway of his old apartment, obscured by shadows and a tilted brim, face twisted in a heart-stopping grimace, and yeah, probably packing heat. He’s not the same man he once was. In fact, he’s not a man at all. Now, he’s just a word, “guilty”. He’s one of “them”.
It only took a moment in American cinema for the hero to become the villain, a new era was ushered into the theaters, and the old guard was done for. Just a few years earlier, films like Public Enemy and Scarface reassured the audience, often with advisories or disclaimers, that the men they were seeing on the screen was one of “them”, a crook, an infestation in the heart of American values, in American justice. Fritz Lang exposed the lie, and said “Joe Wilson is you,” and he said “Joe Wilson is me, too,” and he said “the line between a good man and a public enemy is very, very thin.”
Welcome to Noir Week, the forecast is black.
From the Life of the Marionettes (1980, Ingmar Bergman; Cinematographer: Sven Nykvist)
“Most unfortunately in the lives of the Marionettes there is always a BUT that spoils everything”. - Carlo Lorenzini, The Adventures of Pinocchio.
“I don’t have a truth.” - Peter Egermann (Robert Atzorn), From the Life of the Marionettes
The final shot of Ingmar Bergman’s From the Life of the Marionettes is of Peter Egermann laying in the bed of a psychiatric hospital, holding on to a raggedy, stuffed bear, as his nurse speculates on the bear’s significance. “Probably a childhood memento,” she muses. For cinephiles, this is a moment of insight. From the Life of the Marionettes is Citizen Kane, or perhaps the anti-Citizen Kane.
Like Orson Welles’ renowned triumph of the silver screen, Bergman’s Marionettes dissects a man’s life, his loves, his hopes, and his fears, through flashbacks following a death. Cinematographer Sven Nykvist even mimics the evocative newsreel style Gregg Toland brought to Kane, departing only to imbue a crucial dream sequence with a hypnotic fluidity. Citizen Kane proposes life is a like a puzzle in which each piece, when discovered, informs the whole. Bergman’s pieces are just pieces, and though some fit, often deceptively well, a total cohesion is impossible. There is always a “but”.
“Rosebud,” Charles Foster Kane’s enigmatic final word, when revealed to be the newspaper publisher’s childhood sled, is the key that informs the man’s every moment, and at the film’s climax, there is understanding. Kane is a man who never lived his youth, and forever grasped for it. When the nurse in Marionette suggests Egermann’s bear is a token of his past, Bergman is playing a cruel joke on an audience seeking a Rosebud. Egermann’s bear only serves to complicate the existence, rife with contradictions, of a human being in despair.
In a crucial sequence at the center of the film, Egermann’s friend Tim (Walter Schmidinger), delivers an anxious monologue into his mirror, ruminating on the impossibility of fulfillment in a world where intimacy and brutality can intertwine with such grace. Later, Tim insists to an investigative officer that Egermann and his wife Katarina (Christine Buchegger) had a “good marriage”, despite their constant fights and infidelities. Egermann’s psychiatrist, Jensen (Martin Benrath), tells the same officer that the couple’s unhappiness was nothing a little Valium couldn’t cure. When Jensen prepares his report on Egermann, he cites a laundry list of Freudian repressions, repressions hinted at throughout the film, to explain the violent turn which Egermann’s life took. The lights go out, and Jensen is literally left in the dark, his clinical explanation not only unsatisfying, but foolish.
Thus, signifiers signify nothing, Freudian imagery and dialogue fold into themselves, and a stark, docu-drama vantage point offers nothing in the way of clarity, but the film stock. “Who was Charles Foster Kane?” sought Welles. With From the Life of the Marionettes, Bergman responds, “Why ask?” in a tone of self-admonishment, having taken his own bait, and finding, of course