I Love Andrei Tarkovsky

Blue Moon

2008-04-12T17:12:00.004-06:00

Hiroshima Mon Amour - The Opening Sequence

2007-03-19T14:26:00.001-06:00

Questions recently asked by "d" in the now-defunct Armchair Director forum:

I'm intrigued, though; what is happening in the beginning of this film? Is Riva herself when she's saying all that? Or is she feeling somebody elses emotions? Why is he denying all that she sais? What's with the "You saw nothing in Hiroshima" comments? Is it just a display of dubious memories? Aren't we supposed to know for sure, or am I stupid to not have figured it out?

There are many things to discuss in these questions.

From listening to Peter Cowie on the commentary, the opening sequence is Riva describing her experiences of the last few days in Hiroshima.

Cowie says:

As she talks about visiting the hospital and the museum, the people avert their faces. She cannot engage with them, instead she's a tourist, peering in at the glass walls, as it were, of a fish tank.

This begins to get at another of the above questions. Why does the Japanese man (Okada) say she saw nothing in Hiroshima? The simplest answer may suffice. Because she was not there, because her experience of that day was in Paris. Okada mentions at one point in the film that he had heard it was a sunny day in Paris the day of Hiroshima (Aug. 6th, 1945). Encountering Hiroshima for the first time in the hospital and museum, she has a completely distorted view of it. Resnais points to this by using film clips from a Japanese reconstruction of the events in a film called Children of Hiroshima.

Cowie describes the clips as used in Hiroshima Mon Amour:

Their very lack of authenticity suggests that this is how the Riva character views the catastrophe.

Yet, this simple answer does not address the way in which Resnais presents the images, nor does it get at Riva's state of mind in recounting her experience of Hiroshima (a decade and some after the actual event).

OK, first of all, we can talk more about the documentary-style of the opening sequence. Resnais had only made documentaries up to this point, including his famous Night and Fog, and the opening sequence is a continuation of the technique used in those films: notably, the long tracking shots and the incredible montage (juxtaposition of images for a greater effect). Mostly though, these images seem to me to convey a dream-like state of mind. There is an odd beauty to these images, and if this impression of the images is to say anything about Riva, we have to assume that there is much more going on with her than a normal tourist experience of a past catastrophe. More on this later. I think what is interesting to me though is what this might say about Resnais' filmmaking and the way in which we are to view the sequence.

Jacques Rivette says this about Resnais' montage from a Cahiers roundtable discussion on the film in 1959:

It's a double movement - emphasizing the autonomy of the shot and the simultaneously seeking within that shot a strength that will enable it to enter into a relationship with another or several other shots, and in this way eventually form a unity. But don't forget, this unity is no longer that of classic continuity. It is a unity of contrasts, a dialectical unity as Hegel and Domarchi would say.

This dialectical unity of the image in the opening sequence, coupled with Riva's affected voice-over, and Giovanni Fusco's unforgettable score, lend a timeless, dream-like air to the sequence. Not to mention the pure movements of the camera. We as viewers are given an experience of Hiroshima as well in the process. We encounter the twisted metal in the museum, the long hall of the hospital, the faces of the survivors.

Since we do not know the circumstances of Riva's character, we take her words and Okada's words at face value. They are simply words connected to images, and we do not associate them with characters. But is this right? The opening shot of entwined bodies without faces, only voices, adds another element to our impression of the documentary-style of the sequence. What with the affirmative recounting of experience on the part of the woman and the negative rejection on the part of the man, we get a sense of an eternal struggle for identity. The bodies, entwined, striving positively and negatively. I wonder what it means that the woman says yes but the man says no (a feminist reading may be in order). Still though, when I watch this movie, I don't think about why there is a no and a yes. I think we take it for granted that this is the situation in which the information is presented. Because of the dreamlike nature of the sequence, we are sucked in, and have no desire to question what we see and hear.

Writing that though, with the perspective of remembering Hiroshima in mind, I wonder whether that is a good thing. History does not seem to be something to take in blindly, but something to question, to grapple with. But this film is not about Hiroshima, but about remembering Hiroshima, about the act of remembering and forgetting, and how our identities are connected to our memories. In this sense, the tone of the sequence works perfectly.

With the primary action of Hiroshima in mind (remembering, forgetting, identity-forming), and with a better sense of Riva's character, we can then look again at the sequence with a new lens to see through. Cowie's straightforward explanation of the sequence, as seeing through the eyes of a tourist, no longer will suffice. The struggle between the yes and the no is too important, too passionate, to ignore.

Rivette helps introduce this new lens:

The Emmanuelle Riva character is that of a woman who is not irrational, but is not-rational. She doesn't understand herself. She doesn't analyze herself. That is the theme of Hiroshima: a woman who no longer knows where she stands, who no longer knows who she is, who tries desperately to redefine herself in relation to Hiroshima, in relation to this Japanese man, and in relation to the memories of Nevers that come back to her. In the end she is a woman who is starting all over again, going right back to the beginning, trying to define herself in existential terms before the world and before her past, as if she were once more unformed matter in the process of being born.

Riva approaches her experiences of the hospital, museum, film clips etc., like a child would (like a film-goer would), with wide-open eyes, filled with wonderment. This is why when Okada says, "You saw nothing in Hiroshima," she responds, "I saw everything." Whether she consciously decided to or not, Riva is beginning the process of renewal. She takes everything in as a child, and in recounting what she has seen, as a storyteller, she is conveying what is important to her, she is defining herself. So why does Okada negate this? Perhaps he is trying to protect her. He senses that she is completely vulnerable, and taking on the horrors of a past that does not belong to her is not a positive move. However, the act of recounting is positive, is cathartic, and will become the model for Riva to tell her own story.

One of the most searing and beautiful statements she makes in the opening sequence is: "You are destroying me, you are good for me." I think it is this statement in particular that gets at the identity-forming that is desired and that will occur. In the destruction, or deconstruction, of her former self, who she was in Nevers, she will then be able to move forward. It is Okada's questioning, direction, that allow this to happen. Thus, Riva speaks to Okada when she says the above statement. It is said between lovers, said in the moment, and it is simply breath-taking.

Thus, to sum up. I think there are two ways to understand the opening sequence. One, in terms of being a viewer, relating to the images in a child-like fashion (mirroring Riva). And two, in terms of the identity-forming of Riva's character, which, we only get a better sense of after taking in the whole film.

There is probably a lot more to be said about the act of remembering and forgetting as it relates to this film. I'd love to delve more into that, because I think it would provide a striking example of how the idea of cinema relates to memory in general.

Film Reviews

2007-02-16T11:47:00.001-06:00

I want to discuss film reviews.

A series of questions, some overlapping. Feel free to take up any of them:

- Why do we have them (what is their purpose)?

- What are they capable of (what are their limitations)?

- Is a film review capable of in-depth analysis?

- Who writes your favorite reviews? What is it about their reviews that draws you to them?

- When it comes to reviews, what should be the proportion of content to style?

- Can a review ever be called film criticism (read: scholarly) or is reviewing films necessarily a journalistic venture (can a journalistic venture be scholarly)?

- How do you feel about reviews as a medium for your own writing? Do you prefer writing in any other particular form?

- How have reviews contributed (or detracted from) film scholarship over the years?

- With respect to a review itself, what role should/can images play in juxtaposition with the text of a review?

- What role do reviews play in your film viewing?

- What role have reviews played in your film education?

I'll continue to add questions as I come up with them. Go ahead and start responding already!

Film Moments: "The Horror, the Horror"

2007-02-15T10:19:00.001-06:00

Alright, film moments, moments that have been important to us as we have experienced them in the film universe, that we take with us into our own lives as significant. We shelve these moments away, sometimes drawing upon them for example or reference outside of what we're currently focusing on, but I want another excuse to discuss them, to share. As appreciators of film, we should be able to tell stories about our viewing experiences, just in the same way that you might tell a story about something that happened to you walking down the street the other day or even something bigger, like an important conversation with an old friend or the start of a new relationship. Films happen to us. Sometimes, a film comes slinking in the night and takes us by surprise, sometimes, a comfort movie strikes us in a new way (a tender slap in the face). I think what catches us off-guard is often a specific moment when we find ourselves drawn completely into the film universe. I don't think that for a whole film complete emotional involvement is possible, but for a moment, yes.

At any rate, I know it's not always the best thing to live from movie moment to movie moment, but in this space, we can indulge!

The first "kind" of moment I want to touch on is described by a statement one of our favorite literary characters, Kurtz, from Heart of Darkness makes: "The horror, the horror." Now, we can certainly discuss what Kurtz means by this statement, but I'll put forth my own (probably wrong) definition of the moment as we might experience it in film. When we experience this kind of moment, the film has drawn us in and led us down a certain path, and then, something for whatever reason shifts (either in the narrative or visuals or whatever) and we have a moment of recognition in which a new way of looking at things floods into our heads within the world the film has constructed (actually, that could probably describe all important film moments). But this specific moment deals I think with the depravity of humanity. It is a greater, fuller knowledge of the negative impulses that sometimes drive our lives. I want to leave the idea vague at this point, so you can put your own spin on what exactly we're dealing with here, whether it's a matter of sin or a secular ethics or whatever. This moment of recognition can either be something the film intends or maybe something that hits you at a random time.

I'll have to give an example. In L'Avventura, at the end of the film, when Claudia discovers Sandro on the couch with the prostitute, we fully realize the depravity of these characters. The moment comes slowly and carefully. Claudia wakes up in the morning after the big party, and finds that Sandro, with whom she has engaged in a whirlwind love affair, is not in the hotel room with her. She wanders through the mansion with the remnants of the party laying scattered around the spacious rooms. A dim light seeps through the windows, creating a sense of dread as Claudia moves toward a couch at the end of one of the rooms. There, on the couch, is her lover Sandro, necking with a prostitute. We know its coming when we see the couch, but we hold our breath with Claudia. The moment draws upon our hope that Claudia and Sandro (or any of the characters in this film) might find some brief happiness in the midst of their idle and indulgent lives, but the recognition is knowing that this happiness is not possible, that there will inevitably be a catch. The distractedness of these characters will not let them take part in any meaningful relationship.

Symbolism in Film

2007-01-24T00:52:00.004-06:00

Immediate aside: Could I possibly come up with a broader question to start a discussion? Let me hone in a little more.

The idea for this post came out of a Armchair Director Forum member's mention of the use of symbolism in Children of Men. He was trying to sort out what particular images in the movie meant symbolically: premonitions of death (Clive Owen looking through a dirty and broken window at the pregnant girl outside) or easy aphorisms like life is fleeting (the appearance of the deer inside the school). Reading this, I guess, I had a negative reaction at first. How is it that we can say anything for sure about these images?

But hmm....I guess one would probably say that digging up and polishing symbolism in a film is one part of the analysis of that film. And in doing analysis, we need to try on all sorts of clothes to see which ones fit. However, I think trying to give a definite meaning to a given image or sequence can be a red herring as well. How do we know what Cuaron meant with the deer in the school? How do we know that Cuaron had something particular in mind? It is well known that scholars and admirers of Tarkovsky's films make a lot out of his use of rain in his films, yet when pressed to say what the rain means to him, Tarkovsky said something to the effect of, "It's just rain."

Of course, then one will say, well, it doesn't matter what Tarkovsky thinks because once he puts his work out there, he is no longer the authority on what his work means. Point conceded. The viewer should be an equal participant in the ongoing discussion after the filmmaker moves to start the conversation (nod to Brian Park for the idea).

But this goes on to another question: what is the most effective use of symbolism? I would argue that if I can tell that the film is trying to convey a symbol, then the film has failed in making that symbol in any way meaningful to me. I feel cheated if I notice the deer means anything other than a deer. I think this is partly what Tarkovsky is trying to get at. The scholars dice up his films to find some way to describe their primal power, but for Tarkovsky, he is filming what is natural to him. He grew up in an area of Russia where it rained a lot, apparently, so that it would rain in his films is not surprising. And anyway, the symbol's effectiveness (hiddenness) hinges on our being sucked into the film we are watching, so if we are trying to figure out the code during our viewing, we are going to get less out of the symbolism and less out of the film. So in that sense, of course Tarkovsky is going to mask his intentions (if he has any). Besides, analysis is such a personal endeavor that for a director to say, "This means that," would be both unfair to those that would take the interpretation as law, and untrue, as in, there is never going to be one meaning to a symbol and the best symbols are those that are too complex to root out anyway.

That last sentence sounds a bit simplistic in some weird way, I'm not sure. Let me explain further. I think the best expressions of cinema are those that are unexplainable. I cannot explain why the Jaguar Shark sequence is so powerful at the end of Life Aquatic . I cannot explain to you how wonderful Tarkovsky's still life set-ups are throughout his films. We're not sure why we feel the way we do, and to try to describe those feelings would be silly. This only means that in these instances, we grant that cinema has come up with its own language, one that is purely cinematic, that is not held captive by literary analysis. If it is possible to come up with some different model by which we might describe cinematic language, I'm not sure. I'm also not well-educated enough with film theory to have a grasp on whether this has already been done well (I'm sure many attempts have been made).

I might stand behind a conjecture though: pure cinema taps into our deepest expressions of self, communal and spiritual awareness, and that we will never know exactly how that works (simply because, we did not make ourselves).

Grey Gardens - Maysles Brothers (1976)

2007-01-11T01:35:00.002-06:00

A documentary of particular note, Grey Gardens.

An old lady and her daughter (relatives of Jackie Kennedy Onassis) live alone in a huge, untended East Hampton house, eating ice cream and remembering the past. There is a passion and eccentricity that fill both of these women, and they fill this empty house. At times, the house seems too small for the both of them! Big Edie was an incredible singer, making records when she was younger, and also a mother of three (or four, I can't remember). Little Edie was a bombshell, a dancer and model, who rejected the men that got past her mother. Talking, always talking the both of them, and at the same time. Putting each other down, arguing about minor details from the past. Big Edie roosts in her bed as if it were a throne, cooking or looking at black-and-white photos, and always a word for her daughter. But she does it in such an unorthodox way, obsessively adjusting the brim of a floppy hat, peering through her bent glasses, that she comes off as a harmless old lady. We know that she has a hold on her daughter though: she has kept her daughter by her side for the majority of her daughter's adult life.

It is Little Edie that intrigues me the most. She says over and over how much she wants to get out of the house, out of the Grey Gardens as they call it. But Little Edie is 56 years old, and has been living with her mother for almost 25 years. She wears costumes and dances around the house as if she were constantly putting on a show. Edie reminds me of a movie star of old, glamorous and dramatic in her own way (she's fond of skirts and stockings). Sometimes in the monologues Edie delivers, she has the sensibility of a teenager, nitpicking and gossiping. But other times, she philosophizes as if she were the only person in the world at that moment. I believe that even if the cameras weren't there, she would still dance and talk to herself.

There are cats and raccoons everywhere in the delapidated house. The gardens themselves are overgrown, and from the balcony of the estate, where the two sunbathe, you could walk across the tops of the trees to the ocean.

There is no narrator here, there are only the two women talking. Once in a while one of the Maysles, holding camera and sound equipment show up in the film, pointing the camera at a mirror or taking an offered snack. But this is Little and Big Edies' show. There are all sorts of beautiful moments in this superb example of cinema verite. More people will be able to see it now that it's recently come out on Criterion. And you should see it too.

Barry Lyndon - Stanley Kubrick (1975)

2007-01-08T03:18:00.004-06:00

Trying to pick a single screenshot out of this movie is on the level of what it was like trying to pick a single piece of candy out of a gigantic candy store when you were a kid, and your mommy said, only one piece, only one. I simply can't pick a single one out, so we'll have several. My pointer finger was poised on the screen capture button of my computer's DVD player during the entirety of this film. Counting up the total, I landed on a rather round number, 100 screen shots. Imagine that. This is one of the most beautiful films ever made, and even though it is not obscure by any means, I can't help but badger those who haven't seen it yet. Give it a shot. Yes, it's 3 hours long, yes, the main character has a limited emotional range and is hard to identify with, yes, the story is rather straight forward. It is the story of one man's rise and fall in a time long past. I still recommend it. Let me try to explain why.

Here's our man. The one in the brown on the right with the blank look on his face. Yep, that's him. Redmond Barry/Barry Lyndon (played by Ryan O'Neil) is his name, and I would argue that he is a stand-in for all of us. This is quite a task, to be an everyman. The narrator and the characters in the story help to create the Barry persona by constantly pegging him as an upstart, a simpleton, a rogue. Everyone who meets Barry seems to have a distinct opinion of him. In this way, Kubrick sets up Barry as the everyman. But we look deeper and we see that our everyman is incredibly human, more complex than anyone gives him credit for. A case in point is Barry's relationship to the various father-figures that cross his path in life. Barry's emotional reliance on both the Captain Grogan and the Chevalier gives us a deeper look into a man who lives in a time where emotion is not expressed, where love and meaningful relationships are cast aside in the name of advancement and financial survival. Barry is not a saintly everyman. He is a sinner, a shameful one at times, but this adds to a fuller picture of our main character. No we don't identify with either Redmond Barry or Barry Lyndon, but we are given a well-drawn, fully-human character to stand-in for us in this time long past (to which we have no real connection otherwise).

God, how small we are. How small we are in this beautiful world. This is what I think of when I watch Barry Lyndon. Whether indoors or outdoors, Kubrick frames his characters in such a way as to put them in their place with respect to their surroundings, not unlike the classical Japanese painters of old. Trees, castles, paintings tower over Barry and the other characters of this world. Huge, sweeping events, such as the Seven Years War, and socio-political struggles, a result of the wide chasm between the nobility and the peasantry, rage on around Barry, showing him no particular deference (as the main character of the story). The narrator seems to regard humanity's value in free will with some humor as he describes Barry's journey through life as a mash of good and bad luck. But even if we agree with the narrator, we look beyond the fate-driven thrust of Barry's life and we see more than one life, but a multitude of lives dwarfed by the beauty of things that will outlast them. Having moved beyond the main narrative, we see the beauty of nature and even the beauty of things humanly-created.

Then, we notice smaller things in the film, such as the intense, sideways glance of a baby. We notice the contrast between the sheen of a tossed coin and the dirt and hay of the ground, in the midst of a duel between main characters. We notice the birds chirping, and the wind that blows hard through the Irish farmlands, elements of nature expressing emotion when our characters cannot. We wait expectantly for the long, calculated zoom-outs, revealing more and more of the lush surroundings, and having gotten there, we revel in the close-ups of faces, drawn tight and impassionate, revealing nothing.

But then sometimes, we notice that there is something more behind these blank stares, and Kubrick shows us how love happens and how grief happens in the midst of these greater, eternal forces. When Barry and the Countess of Lyndon's lock gazes, Kubrick fans the flames by jumping back and forth between the same two shots of connection between them. Candles flicker in the lower left hand screen of both shots. Then there is the scene at the end when the Countess stares at a note she is about to sign (I won't say more than that) and she stares off into space for a moment, remembering all that has passed.

Even in the midst of these larger forces, we have people. But most of all, we have an incredibly poetic film, perhaps the greatest period piece ever made, and one of Kubrick's best.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie - Luis Bunuel (1972)

2007-01-06T02:05:00.000-06:00

This is a strange film. Know that first and foremost. And I imagine that people like it for very different reasons. You may like the marvelous acting of the six bourgeois, who try for the entire film to have an uninterrupted dinner (as in the picture above when a cavalry unit preparing for maneuvers stops by for a meal). You may like the surrealist twists and turns, as much of the latter half of the film is made up of dreams and nightmares. You may like the vibrant use of color, which is subtly employed so as to show a manner of restraint (Bunuel seems to accentuate the color of a particular outline or object sporadically through the film). You may even like the socio-political statement that Bunuel is making, Marxist in tone at times, and always taking jabs at the upper class.

I can't say that I resonate with these reasons though. In fact, if it wasn't for two particular sequences in the film, I wouldn't have a personal reason to recommend the film. The two sequences I speak of are the Lieutenant's tale of his childhood and the Sergeant's dream, which start out as stories told by minor characters to the main character listeners, but become something much more as the viewer is transported into the story. In both instances, the sequences take the viewer completely outside of the world of the six bourgeois, both in terms of narrative and in terms of tone. Of course, the power of these sequences probably comes with the juxtaposition they make to the rest of the film, so I cannot claim to like the film just for these sequences. But let me try to explain a little further...

In the midst of Bunuel's biting satire, we are treated to these two sequences of somber beauty, drawing upon the memories and longings of the storyteller. In the Sergeant's dream for example, we find him walking down the street, his eyes downcast, the buildings along the way appearing as part of a set (the doors and windows have been painted on). A church bell tolls throughout the sequence, as well as the chattering of people we cannot see. He meets a man who "smells of earth," who after brief conversation, quickly disappears into an open doorway to "buy something." A conversation with another man, who helps the Sergeant realize that he is in the land of the dead. Outside, a girl of deathly white, the Sergeant's mother, who he did not know well when she was alive. Two incredible opposing images of the two talking, the mother unable to meet her son's gaze. She says, "I looked for you in this dark crowd, I've been looking since I arrived." A cut to her grave, hands draped over a crucifix, as the first shovels of dirt cover her plain dress. The Sergeant goes looking for the first man in the building in order to introduce the man to his mother. Inside, a stairway covered in cobwebs and dirt. The Sergeant calls for the man, but there is no answer. Outside, time has passed, and the Sergeant is alone. No mother, alone.

And then Bunuel takes us back to the world of the bourgeois and the moment passes as if it was nothing. But it is the reason I recommend this film to you. The fact that we are so detached from the rest of the film makes these sequences that much more powerful. The two sequences are transcendent moments, emotional blips in a film about social etiquette and superficiality. As I mentioned, the film has other dream sequences, mostly from the minds of the six bourgeois, but they do not compare to the two mentioned above. The six are wholly consumed by their insecurities and appearances. The Sergeant and Lieutenant long for that which is beyond themselves, and we long with them.

Hiroshima, Mon Amour - Alain Resnais (1959)

2007-01-04T13:38:00.002-06:00

I don't know where to start with this film, so I'll go with the score. Very moving. Hypnotic film, and the score always seems to complement perfectly the images on screen. Although not as pointed in its use of "music as punctuation" as say, In the Mood For Love, still similar in effect.

The visuals are dazzling, so I need to include one or two as a point of reference, before moving on. The meat of this entry starts here:

The opening scene has the couple wrapped up in a human knot of arms and sweaty backs, and we only hear the voice of Emmanuelle Riva, as she recounts an experience with Hiroshima. We wonder, is it her experience? Is it his? The film is notable for its interplay between the now and the past, for its mingling of identities. Here in the picture, the two have become untangled for a moment.

Here is an image from one of the most beautiful sequences in the movie. The two continue to hash out their stories, and while they do it, Emmanuelle Riva is chugging beer as if it were some sort of life-potion. Behind them, the lights of the city glance off the water, creating a shimmering display through the restaurant window. Of course, they are too wrapped up in each other to notice it, but we do.

Throughout the film, actually, I was reminded of a pair of films we've talked about recently, Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. Two strangers of different nationalities meeting and having this moment together, intense and cathartic. Celine and Jesse will have two moments, this couple will only have one. In Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the difference in nationality plays out more, as the two talk about their experiences in the war. Riva fell in love with a German soldier and upon discovery, was ostracized by her own parents, and locked in a cellar. Eiji Okada lost his family in Hiroshima while off fighting. The two talk to each other not just in romantic terms, but in terms of filling these holes from the past. When Riva and Okada make love, they are making love in the empty spaces of these holes, the rifts between nations and between persons torn apart by war. And they are also making love TO the holes, to the pain and suffering they have experienced and cannot separate themselves from. It is a painful thing to watch, but it is beautiful as well. Beauty contained within the ugliness. That's how I would describe Hiroshima, Mon Amour.

Ghost World - Terry Zwigoff (2001)

2006-12-19T13:44:00.000-06:00

Ghost World! Yes, Terry Zwigoff's lovely, character-driven dark comedy. One of the most compelling coming-of-age films I have ever seen. I was recently asked to defend this film and so this is my response.

This could have been a simple teen comedy with Thora Birch and Scarlett Johansson walking around and making fun of people, then some guy getting in the way of it. Well, some guy DOES get in the way, but it's not at all what you might expect in a teen movie. Steve Buscemi, in his best role to date, brings to the screen Seymour, an inward-looking middle-aged bachelor with a comb-over and a room full of old records and collectibles. This is not a character from a teen movie, because Buscemi brings real substance to Seymour. We care about Seymour and we care about Thora Birch's Enid, who can't seem to find something that makes her truly happy.

Their relationship is based on a shared interest in the things/music that other people have since thrown aside. It is also these things/music that make this film come alive. The music (Seymour's old-timey music in this case) is given the same significance to the film as the characters give it within the film. For instance, Enid listens to Skip James "Devil Got My Woman," a blind buy from Seymour's garage sale, and Zwigoff dwells on the moment with her. In turn, we also listen to the song, and personally, I found myself as entraced as Enid seems to be. The song then compels Enid to go back to Seymour to look for more music like it, and their odd relationship begins. The David Kitay score works in a very different way from the old-timey music in that it is more in the background (it is much more subtle), but it is no less effective in evoking the deeper underlying mood of the characters. I am thinking especially of the main theme that punctuates the end of the film when Enid walks to the bus stop.

Also, the things/the stuff that occupy the corners of the screen within this film. Enid's punk tapes strewn across the floor, all of the stuff at Seymour's garage sale and Enid's lawn sale, the stuff that they really can't part with when the push comes to the shove, Seymour's display room. It is fitting that this film comes from a comic book (by Daniel Clowes), comic books being a familiar collectible. But for these characters, the stuff is not just for display, it contains a piece of who the characters are, and in a world of awkwardness and social barriers (perpetuated as much by the judgment of the outsiders as the insiders according to Ghost World), sometimes the stuff and the interest in the stuff make for a more reliable friend.

The things/music also point to the sadness underlying these characters' lives. The film starts off with Enid's dark wit, but as the film moves on, we see more and more of the insecurity behind the comedy. Enid is extremely frightened of the next step that she must take past high school, and for the time being within the film, she revels in her throw-back, retro interests, which connect her to something bigger than herself. Seymour tries even less to disguise his unhappiness, and it is so compelling to watch him botch up his relationships, because it seems inevitable that he's going to end up alone, surrounded by his stuff, when the film is over.

Although the underlying tone is kind of depressing, Zwigoff successfully balances this tone with a biting, sarcastic comedy surrounding the characters that Enid both loves and makes fun of. These characters keep the film light at the right moments. One of my favorites is the nunchucks-carrying, beater-tan, gas-station dude, who refuses to submit to authority. In addition to the comedy, these characters help to develop Enid's character. She loves these people, hates them, judges them, and ultimately, uses them as inspiration for her art. Enid draws the characters as she runs across them, framing their personalities on paper in light of her imagination. It is clear that although Enid hides behind her eccentricities and her humor, she has a real knack for constructing something positive out of it in her art.

Zwigoff could have made a teen comedy and he could have made a suburban melodrama. Instead, he gave us a unique coming-of-age film that is as eccentric as the characters it contains therein. It also rings extremely true for me in giving complexity to its assessment of the fringes of American pop culture. For the characters in Ghost World, their interests function both as a vibrant outward vehicle for social networking, and also an inward, materialistic, and lonely venture.

Two Striking Blondes

2006-12-14T04:55:00.001-06:00

(Top) Juliette from L'Atalante
(Bottom) Elsa from The Lady From Shanghai

Ali: Fear Eats the Soul - RW Fassbinder (1974)

2006-12-14T04:38:00.002-06:00

My first Fassbinder film. Very good film. Someone recently mentioned to me that because the film is highly considered critically, they were expecting more, and so were underwhelmed by Ali. Perhaps the simplicity of the film, the subtlety of the film did not blow this person away. But I have to say that it IS the simplicity and subtlety that are so powerful about this film. The content is very simple, the story straightforward. There are no surprises, only characters doing what we expect them to do. Fassbinder pulls no punches and it is MORE powerful for that reason. The inevitability of this situation. But while the narrative follows its predetermined path, Fassbinder works tenaciously with his camera to frame the couple, while trying equally hard to hide his tricks. It is brilliant that Fassbinder is able to give us the images he does while not drawing too much attention to his camerawork: the shots through the doorways, the camera creeping up to focus on Emmi or Ali in a particular moment, the dolly shot in the bar which ends with the blonde bartender looming over Emmi, etc.

I have to say that I struggled with some of the social subject matter as the movie went on, getting caught up in the guilt that comes with any movie that addresses racism and so on, but now a few hours removed from the movie, I think the moments that are going to linger are those between Ali and Emmi when he first comes over and when "one thing leads to another" in such a lovely way, in a quiet way, that Fassbinder has already won over our hearts to prepare us for the heavier stuff to come. And really, when it comes down to it, yes the racism subject is there, but Fassbinder does not have a social message set in stone (ala Crash) with this film. This film is about two unlikely lovers whose kindness toward each other, or even, whose aspiration toward kindness, is the only thing that is worth living for in a cold, alienating world.

Ebert has an excellent essay on the film in his "Great Movies" series.

Note: I was very surprised to know post-viewing that Fassbinder plays Emmi's racist son-in-law in the film, the scum-bag Eugen.

Also, the film was shot in 15 days between two bigger budget films, Martha and Effi Brest. As Ebert says of Fassbinder, "He shot it on a shoestring." Funny how a shoestring can make for a great picture.

The Pool Shark - W.C. Fields (1915)

2006-12-07T23:30:00.000-06:00

I have a thing for W.C. Fields. How did this bloated, cruel, and drunken man become a star? 60 years after Fields' death, I find his brand of comedy particularly appealing for some reason. More appealing than other comedic giants from the same era, say, Chaplin or the Marx Brothers. Blasphemous, I know. Fields, his red nose and battered hats, his mumbling, sarcastic demeanor, his off-kilter way of dealing with the world. For some reason, Fields' persona seems more real, more easy to identify with than Chaplin or Groucho. I'm not exactly sure why.

But anyway, I want to write on more than Fields. I want to write about a particular moment in one of his films that has nothing to do with Fields. So I'm watching Criterion Collection's W.C. Fields: Six Short Films and I'm in the middle of W.C. Fields screen debut in The Pool Shark. The film is boring. Silent films do not suit Fields well because he is unable to play his persona (which relies so much on his slurring, elongated mumble). Anyway, my attention is on auto-pilot, trying to make it through the 10-minute short for the novelty of it when...

We get a close-up of the girl character. A fish bowl she was tending has been smashed and now the fish are in her hair and her hair is all wet! As she reaches up to her now mop-like hair to take the fish down one by one, she has the most indescribable expression on her face (see above).

But what makes this moment all the more incredible is the shot itself. It looks like it's straight out of a French New Wave film from the '60s. Every other bit of this film is ordinarily shot as far as early silent comedies go: the static long shot giving the characters plenty of room to waddle around and perform their slapstick routines. However, for less than ten seconds we are treated to a rare moment of beauty in the film. The girl is slightly off-center to the right, her long arm draped in white as her luminous hand searches her dark, tangled hair for the fish. Her face, wet and innocent, is lost in the shadow of her hair. She is so beautiful in this moment, so real. The composition is incredibly out of place in the movie, but disregarding that fact, it is the only moment of substance in the film.

Sometimes, all you need out of a movie is a moment like that.

That is the moment described by Andy Horbal in his blog as the "cinephiliac moment." Wonderful concept, though I prefer the term "filmic moment" better, because it lets us refer to film in the ideal sense. At its best, at its most pure, film has transcendent moments like these. "Filmic moment" also sounds better.

Anyway, the funny thing is, as soon as I finished with the film I had to have a still of the close-up for my desktop background on my computer. But once I had one still up, I realized that I wanted a different still, and then another. I was not satisfied with any particular still. One image plucked from a film does not encapsulate what we felt out of the moment, even if the moment lasted only seconds in film-time. This is of course where film is a completely different medium than photography. The filmic moment is a moment that has its effect in relation to the other moments within the film. In the case of the girl close-up, one reason why it is so poignant is that it is like a rose growing out of the dry grass of a long, empty field: I did not expect anything out of this short, and then there was the close-up. Reflecting more, the movement through time in the film made the moment what it was. Using my metaphorical setup, I scanned the field, I walked through it, and I found a rose. Taking the rose home with me, it was beautiful but it was just a rose, and it wilted and fell away. But what I remember is the experience of walking through that field and coming upon the rose.

Distant/Uzak - Nuri Bilge Ceylon (2002)

2006-12-07T00:43:00.001-06:00

Well, I finally saw this film tonight! I would definitely recommend it to folks who can slow down to be absorbed by this film's quiet rhythm. There is a lot of silence in this film, a lot of still cameras watching the two main characters do a lot of nothing. There is NOT a lot of story, there is not a lot of character growth. But, the film is beautifully shot and true-to-life in its portrayal of a middle-aged photographer mired in his pride and his habits, who grows weary of a younger cousin who comes to stay with him in the city while finding work. Bleak stuff, but the audience is able to stay distant from the characters so that the effect is not "Wow, this is a depressing film." It's is just a quiet film - these characters are like people we know, people we probably have been like at times, but hope that we are currently not like.

There is a strong presence of natural sound in this film - the chimes on the balcony of the photographer's apartment, the jazzy mood music of the bar that the photographer frequents, the chatter of lovers playing in the park. This natural aura helps to draw the viewer into the flow of the film. Funny how we identify with the poetry of Ceylon, but we do not identify with the characters, and how this is all a good thing in the end. I guess usually one of the main gripes that we have about films we don't like is that we don't like the characters. But I guess that's not what Ceylon is going for anyway.

The visuals are striking, particularly the scenes in the snow. While looking for work down at the port, the cousin walks by a beached tanker lying on its side in the snow. We understand that it is probably an omen that the cousin is not going to find work! And an omen that the photographer and his cousin are going to come into conflict. It is an inevitable conflict for two people who are selfish and introverted. Some of the visuals seem a tad contrived, like the birds flying dramatically down into the city square in which the photographer is finding subjects to photograph.

At any rate, worth seeing. Ceylon is a filmmaker to watch.

On Blogs and Film Criticism (a personal take)

2006-12-04T19:27:00.001-06:00

My goodness gracious. Talk about another world out there. Did you know that there are thousands, tens of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of film bloggers out there that can write better than you, that have 100 times the amount of film knowledge as you, that see as many films in a year as you will see in your lifetime? I am simply astounded by all of it, and by how connected all of these folks are to each other. They each have their own blog account and comment on each others’ blogs and meet at film festivals and know all the ins-and-outs of what the web has to offer in terms of informal film criticism. We are all so very, very behind. Even now, this business of casually communalizing over a love for film, of exchanging knowledge, opinion, and recommendation, is already being done all over the web. And I can hardly claim to be a part of it.

Do you have a film blog? What is the significance of film blogs to film criticism? It seems like it's a pretty important business, these film blogs. Magazines, books, newspapers: these are slowly becoming obsolete. The printed word is going out of style. Right? It's all online now, all the information you could ever ask for. Funny though, because for me personally, I have a hard time focusing on an online article. I guess I’m old-fashioned. Even though I've been brought up on a heavy, frequent dose of online perusing, I get my work done best when I’m holding something in my hands. Online, my mind is unfocused as I jump from screen to screen, scanning almost unconsciously, clicking every couple seconds and then trying to remember why I clicked. Surfing the web is a matter of tangents: it is easy to get lost, and difficult to get anywhere that I feel, in retrospect, was worth my while. So, I have a hard time sorting through all of this material online: these well-written, cutting edge film blogs that reveal a wealth of knowledge with a few clicks (and much time peering at the small font on the screen). I guess I’m missing the boat when it comes to film criticism.

What would it mean to be on top of the current state of film criticism? If I read religiously the most popular film blogs, could I claim to be up-to-date on film criticism? If instead, I decided to never go online again, and only read the printed word, would I inevitably be missing out on the best that current film criticism has to offer?

Either way, I cannot claim to be much of a reader. In terms of scholarly material, I’ve read one film book in the last three months, and a couple of online articles on film. I’ve frequented film sites, stomped the hell out of my familiar stomping grounds, and probably spent more time physically clicking the mouse than I’ve spent reading seriously. To wax poetic for a second, sometimes I feel like a shadow of a human being when I’ve spent the evening online. I am a shadow of the people that are doing real things: making conversation, reading books, being creative, eating, exercising, etc. I cannot claim to be much when all I’ve done is lazily passed my eyes over text I cannot remember.

Yet, I am a bright-eyed, 22-year-old lover of film. Pausing for a second, the question is: What does that mean in terms of my ability to be a part of film criticism? Well, I’m not sure. Because I am not well-read, I do not have much of a frame of reference by which I can acknowledge what has come before, be a part of what is happening now, and anticipate what will come in the future. Thus, without this frame of reference, it is almost impossible for me to create a space in which my writing, my opinion, can stand out. But I don’t want to be cynical about this. I am on the other hand, rather idealistic about the whole thing. When I watch a film, I try to make myself vulnerable to it, to flow with the stories and images, to be moved. Oftentimes, I will be moved to respond to the film, whether I do that in conversation, writing, or just by thinking.

It is my written response that becomes my contribution to film criticism, however small. I believe my response is not insignificant: my opinions and feelings draw upon my experience, my knowledge, my instinct, and if I am passionate enough, and meticulous enough in responding clearly, I should feel like I have made a contribution. In the process, even if my work is to some extent a-historical, even if it is not widely-read, it is significant, because it is an exercise in moving outward. Yes, writing (and blogging) may seem selfish at times, because the focus is so much on the thoughts’ of the writer, but it is unselfish in the sense that these thoughts, these words, are leaving the brain and being scribed into a realm in which people can see and share in the inner life of someone else. There is much room for disappointment when it comes to reaching out through writing, but the potential for a connection is too compelling to be tossed easily aside. There is not much that is more noble than the sharing of one’s self and then receiving of what someone else has to share (of course, the process could happen the other way too). Writing is one way to do this.

Until recently, I did not write anything for an online audience. However, there does seem to be something important about film criticism when it is done online for anybody to stumble across, even if it is done by someone with little more reference than their own experience. Maybe the reason I spend so much time online is the potential for a connection to others through ideas, sent spontaneously and instantly through the click of the mouse. It can be a giddy, exhilarating experience. It can also be a brainless, waste of time. In terms of not being able to focus on online material, when it gets to that point, I should probably get offline. For one thing, it’s hard to appreciate a movie and surf the web at the same time. For another, it is my experience that the connection noted above is most deeply achieved in person anyway through conversation (and not in writing). So I think ultimately I’m OK with not being the sort of person who knows everything about film and crafts magnificent, well-connected blogs. I love watching films, I’ll continue to write, and if I have a few friends to enjoy the journey with me, that’s good enough for me.

What is it about movies?

2006-12-04T19:24:00.001-06:00

Film, movies, cinema, motion pictures. What is it about them that you like? What draws you to them? I think one of the best ways to assess the state of film is to figure out what we like about movies and then see if the current state is making the sort of movies that we like. I know this is a very personal and subjective way to assess the state of film, but personal is good sometimes.

For me, I like films that make me think. I like films that have ideas planted in them that challenge my worldview, or that make me think in a new way about myself. Well, what I like the most is a film that shows me a new way in which the world is beautiful. Now the beauty does not have to be a sappy thing - it does not have to be roses and rainbows. Beauty is sometimes contained within the ugliest of events, the ugliest of acts, the ugliest things that the world has to offer. I like it when film is like haiku: when it makes simple observations on the world around me. When one image could be done a million different ways but the filmmaker chooses this specific way to do it that rings perfectly true.

Do you like films that go for realism, or films that take you away from your cares and worries (IE fairytales)? I think I like both in good doses. Sometimes fairytales, stories that are fantastic and otherworldly, reflect the most on our lives.

I think it is hard for film to be haiku, and hard for filmmakers to be poets. I can't name very many filmmakers who I would describe as poets, working in the US or elsewhere. It is hard when films cost so much to make, when distribution is so expensive, to make a film that simply observes life. Some people would call such filmmaking dull, some would call it foolish. But the best films I have seen have been simple statements conveyed through images, which have stories that are true to the characters and true to the sorts of people the characters are. Compromise is not optional. That is why many of the best films have been made by maniacal, singularly-driven filmmakers. Alfred Hitchcock, for example. The man was the best technically at every aspect of filmmaking, and so he had control of almost every element of his projects. His films are pure statements: simple, effective haiku.

What do you guys like about movies? What draws you in? What do you see in the state of film that appeals to your movie sensibilities?

Film Canons

2006-12-04T19:16:00.001-06:00

Film canons. What do we do with them? What do we think of the idea of them? Recently, Paul Schrader, notable screenwriter (Taxi Driver, Raging Bull) and film scholar (author of Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer) was encouraged to write a film version of Harold Bloom's The Western Canon. Schrader got as far as writing an introductory chapter to the book, as well as a list of 60 films, but soon realized that his heart was not in the project, and decided to stop his work on it. What remains is an article in the September/October Film Comment, of which we have an online version, and his list.

The list and article have caused quite a stir in some circles, since Schrader is such a well-known scholar (especially), and there have been many responses that have come out. One of which is Zach Campbell's response, found on his blog here and here.
Campbell talks about how Schrader's list does not include what he sees as the necessary element of a film canon: a variety of film forms. Schrader's canon is a list of what may be called "Criteron-type Greatest Hits." Schrader does not touch short films, documentaries, or avant-garde film. He does not delve into the non-narrative world of film. At any rate, this is one of the many critical responses to Schrader's work on the canon, though again it must be mentioned that he DID NOT actually write a book, just published an article on the failed project in a magazine.

So what I'm wondering is this: Are film canons helpful? What is the purpose of a film canon? Is a film canon worthwhile in and of itself, or does it need to have a helpful function in order to be valuable? I would probably argue that the purpose of a film canon should line up with the purpose of film criticism, which I believe should fall somewhere along the lines of: helping the audience of the criticism in question understand something about film. It should be helpful. It should point to films that are essential for someone to understand what film is about, why it is beautiful, why it is important. If we were to box up 60 films (or whatever the number would be) and bury the films in the ground to be dug up in thousands of years by an alien race, these films would represent the best of what we as a filmmaking humanity have to offer.

Now, whether it is possible or not to have 60 films or any number of films encapsulate the creative spirit of humanity captured in film is not really the question. Of course no list can be definitive. However, the nature of a list like this is inevitably a source of much debate, heated debate that does not always involve people's better sensibilities. It is this outcome, the nitpicking and the negative reaction to a list (which comes across as definitive) which is why canons would not be a good idea. Maybe another reason that canons would not be a good idea is that if one person were to make a canon, that canon would be personal in nature (which is not the point of a canon). No one person can successfully determine the essential films. Could many people together voting determine this canon? Who are you asking to vote? Would you ask scholars? Directors? Actors? The general populace? There are always problems with coming up with canons.

Another problem is that along with the definition of canon comes the word "Fixed." The biblical canon, for example, is a fixed set of books that have remained the same for a long, long time, and are unlikely to be changed short of Kingdom-Come. If a canon is fixed, then can it be helpful when people are so different from each other in taste and background? How can one list really be helpful to everyone? If one were to live by the list, that person would probably be missing something, at least in my opinion. Schrader says:

Not only is there no agreement about what a canon should include, there’s no agreement about whether there should be canons at all. Or, if there is agreement, it is this: canons are bad—elitist, sexist, racist, outmoded, and politically incorrect.

For example, the people that have been given the greatest opportunity to make films have been males with a lot of money and education. Of course then, a canon of essential films will probably include films made by directors who were men with a lot of money and education. It is an issue of class, sex, among the other things Schrader noted.

But in spite of all this, Schrader was going to go on the write this book on a film canon, because canons are "needed," he says, they serve a function.

Do they? What do you think?

Suggestions For A Proper Film Education

2006-12-04T19:13:00.001-06:00

So I'm not entirely sure what I want to go on in this post, but I think it would be cool if we could suggest some ideas for what a person would need if they were to get a proper film education. This is connected to the film literacy topic. The question is: What is needed for film literacy?

It seems like there are some prerequisites, which would be a love for film in general, before someone would be willing to follow any steps to become film literate.

Then, maybe somewhere in here(let's not be systematic now), one would need a good introductory film text. Cover your bases, read about genre and the auteur theory and the star system, etc. Maybe some neo-realism and a couple of references to narrative convention.

Chris Cagle, a lecturer in film and media arts at Temple University, assesses the worth different intro to film textbooks.

Maybe another suggestion would be to watch some films that are deemed to be classic or essential to appreciate "the best" of what film has to offer. This is probably a debatable question, though. Is there a film canon? This is the title of another thread altogether. Do people need to be tapped into a canon to be film literate? One could probably argue that to understand or think deeply about films, one only needs to know a model in which to do that, and the rest would follow.

In order to be film literate, would one need to have some experience in making movies? In order to be literate in English, in order to understand vocabulary, sentence structure, theses, etc, we write essay after essay in high school and college. An essential part of literacy is the ability to write, so would film literacy require some creative element as well?

So many people watch films, but do not understand them for many different reasons. One, they do not care to understand film. Two, they are not able to read images in the same way that people read words. Maybe it is the case that they understand images, but they could not express this understanding in any way, because people do not have the proper form for explanation. If pressed to explain the information that one gets out of a given image, a normal person would have a hard time doing it. The person might even ask why one would do such a thing. If we are going to be film literate, we need to understand the language of film, which is made up of images. We must understand film composition, editing, mise en scene; we must understand the technical elements of the image in the same way that we understand the technical elements of the word.

What else do we require for our film education? We probably need to find people to watch films with. If it has not become clear to you from English classes, the proper way to read a novel is to have a variety of perspectives. One needs support in one's education. That is sort of what the site wants to be, even if it isn't at this point. In reading the mission statement, we see that the best insights into film our on the rides on the way home, in those discussions we have in which people learn together what they personally and collectively think is important about a given film or film in general.

Anything I'm missing?

Film Literacy For Kids

2006-12-04T19:01:00.001-06:00

I just read an article by English writer, Anthony Horowitz, provided by New Statesman, about the state of film as it relates to younger movie goers. He is writing from a British standpoint, and is talking about British film, but he also addresses Hollywood's infiltration of theaters globally. He talks about how silly it is that bad Hollywood movies make big box office, but I think what he says about film literacy is particularly worth noting.

In particular:

It is strange that while we worry about literacy and the need to read, an entire generation is growing up in complete ignorance of a rich and varied part of its own cultural heritage. How many teens could name one film by David Lean, Lindsay Anderson, Ken Loach, Stanley Kubrick, Alfred Hitchcock or Michael Powell - or even explain, with any degree of accuracy, what their involvement with that film actually was?

Schools do not give credence to film literacy in the same way that they do to novels, poetry, theater, etc. Kids are not taught how to read films, how to extract cultural meaning from them, how to appreciate them.

I remember watching a few films during my K-12 school experience. They were usually used as a supplement, but never as the focus. I remember always looking forward to them. A class in which we watched a film was a good class. And they weren't good classes because we could zone out: I remember usually being glued to the screen. I paid much more attention to a film than to a lecture. If films are an effective teaching tool, then wouldn't it make sense to teach our kids how to read films? We put so much emphasis on the written word, but we don't teach our kids how to read images. Why is this?

Reinventing Classic Genres

2006-12-04T18:56:00.001-06:00

One exciting thing that I run across once in a while is a movie that takes a well-worn genre, say film noir, and tweaks it to breathe new life into the genre. I'm sure we can think of many different examples of this, and that's partly what this post is about. However, in some cases, the movie is able to take the genre to a whole new level, perhaps even entering a new space beyond the definition of the genre in question.

In their article "Dark City, Noir, and the Space Between: Or is it Our Nature to Live in the Dark?" Robin L. Murray and Joseph K. Heumann give an example of a movie entering a completely new genre space. Combining noir, sci-fi, and fantasy, Dark City is able to communicate a philosophy of ecocriticism (defined in the article). Read the article from the online journal Scope here.

I think the problem that I have so often with Hollywood film is that it does not seek to do anything new, to find a new way to tell its story. It is merely trying to give the expected genre experience for a given audience. Genres go through dry periods because filmmakers and producers are afraid to challenge narrative conventions. Is it the case that by challenging conventions, the movie is going to do worse at the box office? I suppose that's a pretty hefty question, and I'm not sure any one of us can do more than speculate about its answer. I think I remember that "Dark City" did not do particularly well at the box office.

I really like the idea of a movie creating its own world for the viewer to step into. Being able to predict the storyline in a typical genre movie keeps the viewer from getting involved. I would also argue that adhering to genre conventions hinders a filmmaker from creating a unique filmic space, a world established and whole within the film. Once a movie makes its own rules for storytelling, it has stepped beyond the realm of genre altogether. I do not mean to argue that genre films are not worthwhile as entertaining films. I mean that films like "Dark City" are able to tell their stories more effectively. Because these films defy expectation, they are given the opportunity to bring the viewer farther into the film.

I feel like film as an art form is particularly vulnerable to the demands of mainstream audiences. In general, film is the most expensive art, requiring a great amount of personnel and technology to make. Thus, the box office makes the film. I think this is why many people have been slow to espouse the idea of film as art. Going to a 20-theater suburban cineplex, one would be hard to find a film that makes any sort of artistic statement. Thus, it is the genre-bending films like "Dark City" that carry the torch for film as art. By telling their stories in a new way, they not only are more interesting for the viewer, but they benefit the state of film.

There is more to be said about how reinventing genres can be done, what films do this well, and how defying genre can lead to a better film and a better state of film. But maybe someone else can chime in at this point.

Introduction

2006-12-04T18:42:00.000-06:00

So, I'm not sure if I'm made for blogging, but I think it could be a good thing to get some writing out there. Mostly, I'm dedicated to working on my website that I started up with a couple of high school friends called Armchair Director, but there's always enough thoughts on the side for a blog as well. The first posts will be from threads in the forum at The Armchair Director, and then after that, I'll write posts exclusively for this blog. Anyway, this is another step toward being part of the larger online film community, which is obviously a thriving and necessary part of film criticism today. Anyway, I'll give it a whirl. Happy reading!