FILMIC December 2015 Issue

Reel 2 // Scene 2

Into the Past STAR WARS The Films of John Hughes Wes Anderson Soundtracks

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FILMIC

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Editor’s Note

If you’re a cinema-lover (And why wouldn’t you be if you’re reading this magazine?), then you know that this December belongs to one film: Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

Now, don’t worry! If you’re not a fan, you needn’t leave in a huff. I’m not going to be that guy forcing Star Wars propaganda down your throat for the millionth time. Instead, I mean to take this in a different direction.

Being a long-time Star Wars devotee myself, I acknowledge that one of the key factors in my own overwhelming anticipation of Episode VII is nostalgia. Like many, I discovered the series at a young age and the lore of George Lucas’s colorful creation came to define a good few years of my childhood.

It is from this passionately wistful feeling for one particular franchise that I derived the theme for Filmic’s third issue. Most of us have at least one movie that is beyond analysis… beyond criticism. At least one movie that we watch every once in awhile—perhaps not for the quality or content, but because it is associated with the time or place in which it was first experienced.

The majority of the pieces you’ll find here are more general in nature, meant to represent the diversity of styles and topics we pride ourselves on representing. But, sprinkled throughout are a number of articles reflecting nostalgic qualities.

A breakdown of The Last Unicorn offers an animated film of candy-colored fantasy, while a Spider-Man “Versus” touches on a comic-book icon. A review of When Marnie Was There and a Lilja 4-Ever hidden gem both explore the world through the eyes of a youngster (one using magical realism and the other using gritty authenticity). We dive headfirst into memory with a review of Jacob’s Ladder, and examine the past with a write-up on the documentary, Cobain: Montage of Heck. Meanwhile, one of our capsule collections covers a director whose work connected with a whole generation of teens.

Of course, tying everything together is our Star Wars appreciation feature. Even if the adventures of a galaxy far, far away aren’t your thing, I encourage you to take a look, as there are plenty of personal insights amongst the unabashed celebration of the series’ most famous characters and scenes.

As always, I sincerely hope you enjoy what our 24 contributors (10 of them newcomers!) have put together. Even if a sense of nostalgia isn’t triggered in you, I’m confident that we’ll give you something to think about.

-Byron Bixler

Editor’s Note

Table of Contents

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Analyze This!

The Last Unicorn

5 9

A Long Time Ago...

For the Love of Film

17 35 41

I II III IV

10

Head to Head

11 14

Discourse Versus

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Criticism

19 22 27 31

Contemporary Reviews Throwback Reviews Capsule Reviews Hidden Gems

36

Semantics

37 39

Essays Poetry

Table of Contents

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Analyze This!: The Last Unicorn

by Kayla Hurowitz

Every once in awhile, an animated film can inspire people and be just as intelligent as any live-action film. Through its strong themes and meaningful message, The Last Unicorn is certainly one of these films.

The Last Unicorn is an animated film directed by Arthur Rankin Jr. and Jules Bass. Its screenplay is written by Peter S. Beagle, the writer of the original novel, on which the film was based. It tells the story of the titular “last unicorn” (also known as Lady Amalthea), who wants to find other unicorns. Those she seeks were driven away by the Red Bull, at the command of King Haggard. On her adventure, she meets many interesting creatures and characters. The audience is also shown how the world in which the story takes place no longer believes in magic and fantasy. The Last Unicorn is worthy of analysis because of how every aspect of the film contributes to the themes of maturity and innocence. Its story, characters, art design and music are impressive for a children’s movie. All of these elements help make The Last Unicorn a memorable and meaningful experience.

One of the film’s notable aspects is how it subverts the tropes of fantasy stories. In this particular tale, mythical creatures are often shown to be nothing but illusions. This is showcased by the witch, Mommy Fortuna, who captures real animals and uses magic to make them appear to be fantastical creatures (such as when she makes a snake look like a dragon). It is stated that she is able to do so because humans will believe whatever is most convenient to them. Magic is also shown to be unexceptional when compared to the magic

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Courtesy of Shout! Factory

portrayed in older fantasy stories. This is applicable to the character, Schmendrick, a wizard that the unicorn meets early in the film, who uses magic, but usually with disastrous results. In one case, Schmendrick accidentally turns the unicorn into a woman. This is to show how the magic in this world is not without limitations and doesn’t always work the way one wants it to, unlike other fairy tales where magic is able to do anything.

Another way the film subverts fairy tale tropes is through King Haggard. Haggard is different from most fairy tale villains because instead of wanting power and wealth, he’s only looking for happiness and feels that he needs to keep anything around him that will give him that feeling. As a result, he kidnaps all of the unicorns in order to view them for his enjoyment whenever he wants. Also unusual is the fact that Haggard only has four people in his court and is very lonely, unlike the typical king, who has many people serving them.

Additionally, Prince Lir (Haggard’s son) believes that by playing the role of a hero, he can gain the affections of Lady Amalthea. He slays monsters and tries to write poems to impress her, but fails to gain her affections. This is in direct opposition to old fairy tales, in which heroes would attempt to attract women through similar means and typically succeed in doing so.

The Last Unicorn also deals with how people lose their innocence and belief in fantasy as they mature. Many characters in the film view unicorns as nothing more than white horses. A character that epitomizes this idea of nonbelief is Molly Grue, who is the wife

Analyze This!

of a bandit named Captain Cully. She laments how she has never seen a unicorn before and feels that she has grown old without experiencing the fantasy stories that she was told as a child. Alternatively, Molly’s husband doesn’t believe in any of these stories. When he hears someone mention Robin Hood, for instance, he gets upset and states that Robin Hood is a myth and that he and his bandits are better than this fictional character.

Just before she meets the Unicorn, Molly gives up on the fairy tales she was told as a child. Later on, the Unicorn undergoes a similar development when she is transformed into a woman (a metaphor for maturing). As the Unicorn spends more time in the human body, she becomes unable to see other unicorns and begins to learn about love and regret—two qualities that unicorns aren’t able to experience. This is analogous to how other characters could no longer see unicorns because they had grown old and stopped believing.

The Unicorn also subverts expectations like the human characters. Despite the fact that she is portrayed as kind and innocent, the Unicorn maintains a low opinion of people and believes that being human is the worst fate that could possibly befall her, due to them being both mortal and susceptible to feelings of regret. Her position evolves throughout the movie, as she comes to accept humanity and no longer thinks little of mortality and regretful feelings.

Another important aspect of The Last Unicorn is the music. Composed by Jimmy Webb and performed by the 70’s soft rock band, America, with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, the soundtrack helps give the film a gloomy feel and has multiple tracks that elevate the drama during scenes in which there is conflict. “Red Bull Attacks” is a track that increases tension, making the Red Bull appear more intimidating in the process. Performed by America, the lyrics of the film’s main theme perfectly describe the main character as a beautiful creature that inspires hope in the people around her, even when they no longer have much to believe in.

Music is also an important aspect of the film’s plot, as songs manage to express certain developments of character. This is true with “Now That I’m a Woman,” which illustrates how the Unicorn feels when she becomes human and how she learns to accept it over time. The song, “That’s All I’ve Got to Say,” informs the audience of the relationship between Amalthea and Prince Lir, without them being on screen together too often prior to that scene.

The art direction of the film adds to the wondrous nature of the fairy tale-like setting. Locations in the story include the serene forest and a massive castle. The art consists of painted backgrounds that constantly utilize the color blue, which gives the film a somber and dream-like tone.

The art is also employed to show dramat-

ic, thematically-relevant changes in weather, such as when the Unicorn leaves a home set in eternal spring and enters a harsher world where she experiences winter.The background art is good at adapting to different locales. This is exemplified when the characters enter King Haggard’s kingdom. With grey and other dull colors being added to the film’s color palette, the kingdom feels emptier and more barren in contrast to previous locations in the film. The characters also have memorable designs, with the Unicorn being particularly striking, sporting wide blue eyes a long mane and a white hide (symbolizing purity). This gives her an appearance that is both innocent and majestic.

A few of the performances are also quite impactful. Playing King Haggard, Christopher Lee manages to balance the character’s intimidating qualities with his strong sense of melancholy. As the Unicorn, Mia Farrow captures the character’s unsullied heart and mature mind. Finally, Tammy Grimes sells the sadness and shrewdness of Molly Grue.

The Last Unicorn is an amazing film that both confronts the tropes of fairy tales and crafts a wonderful and sophisticated story of its own in a way that elevates it above a lot of other animated children’s films. In addition to being complex and endearing, the characters each represent the subversion of different fairy tale tropes. At the same time, the plot devices effectively tie together the film’s various themes and the art and music contribute to the film’s aesthetic emulation of classic fairy tales.

When the story ends with the unicorns being freed and King Haggard defeated, it also has Amalthea giving up her newfound humanity and love for Prince Lir to revert back to a unicorn. Unlike other children’s movies, The Last Unicorn shows how not everything can have a happy ending. It’s an important message that should resonate with many younger audience members due to its refusal to pander and acknowledgment of their ability to understand real-world concepts.

Analyze This!

Courtesy of Shout! Factory

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A Long Time Ago...

Favorite scenes, beloved characters, and personal stories from a galaxy far, far away.

The Prequels: Then vs. Now - Kevin Fermini Summer, 1999: The lights go down in the theater. I’m nervous in the dark, but my dad is right by my side.

A powerful theme blasts from the speakers and I jump, inspiring a nervous energy in me as a smile creases my lips and my eyes go wide in wonder. Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace unfolds before me in what can only be described as childlike magic, casting its marvelous spell of adventure upon me. Anakin is a kid, like me! Darth Maul has two lightsabers in one? Wow! His painted face and horned head scares me, but I can’t turn away from the fantastical world around him. The pod race takes my breath away. The alien landscapes capture my imagination. The characters feel so real to me and I want to be in their world.

I want to be a Jedi. I want more Star Wars! As my dad and I walk out of the theater the world seems new, full of possibilities and adventures. If one thing is for certain in the world we have emerged into, it’s this: Star Wars Episode I is the greatest movie, ever.

Summer, 2010. An innocent Star Wars marathon. I turn off the lights in my living room. The Phantom Menace DVD slides into my player. Two hours later, I feel the first strings of adulthood piercing my heart. Outside my window, the world looks a little less bright. The glimmering CGI digs a hollow hole in my heart.The words “Mee-sa Jar Jar Binks” ring through my head and I shudder. I watch Jake Lloyd play Anakin and feel an awful desire to punch him. Instead of the vast deserts of Tatooine, my mind is cast off to Skywalker Ranch, where George Lucas is no doubt bathing in a pool of dollar bills. I feel exploited. Sick.

The curtain has been pulled back to reveal the man pulling the strings. And I don’t like that man. But the Star Wars Marathon has just begun. And I still have to get through Episode II.

The Battle of Hoth - Byron Bixler The base is abuzz with activity as pilots ready their ships and soldiers run to their posts. With the support of a powerful ion cannon and a pair of X-wings, a transport makes its escape, soaring through the atmosphere and past a discombobulated Star Destroyer. A cheer goes up as the ship’s safe passage is announced. The evacuation continues, but all is not quite right. Something is coming, looming on the horizon, approaching one step at a time.

Of all the wonderful scenes the original Star Wars trilogy has to offer, one of the most thrilling sequences for me has to be the Battle of Hoth. Until now, we had never seen the full military might of the Empire (at least not exerted on land). We weren’t dealing with roaring TIE Fighters and an all-powerful Death Star anymore. Instead, we are met with the formidable image of the massive AT-AT walkers, craning their necks and lumbering through the snow like armor-plated, blaster-outfitted dinosaurs. On first viewing, I remember being absolutely riveted by the quiet that preceded their appearance and then chilled to the bone by my first glimpse of them slowly marching in the distance. From that point on, it’s pure Star Wars action. Snowspeeders swarm the walkers, making some progress before getting overwhelmed, the Rebels are driven from their trenches and finally, Darth Vader makes his entrance on the battlefield, leading his troops through the base and watching as the Millennium Falcon shoots out of the hangar at the last second.

My young mind could barely take the dread, the excitement and the tension packed into that 10-minute sequence. More than a decade later, I’m still pulling myself together.

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Feature // A Long Time Ago

The Star Wars Experience on VHS - Joel Kalow For those of a certain age, the definitive version of Star Wars is on VHS. It features crude puppets, grainy footage, exactly zero digital effects and no extras of any kind, save for an awkward interview with George Lucas. In stripping away all of the attempts to modernize the trilogy, it in fact becomes the only version that hasn’t aged poorly. No “Greedo shot first” nonsense, no outdated CGI to muck up the frame, no Hayden Christensen. All that is left is pure, nostalgic bliss. A story that remains ubiquitous in this listicle-ruled information world. Sure, it may look like a relic, but what could be more fitting for a series that opens with “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…”?

The Fan Awakens - Kris DiNardi Although my father isn’t a massive Star Wars fan, he has been part of the fandom ever since the first film came out in 1977. I only found out recently that he has been a closeted Star Wars fan. He has seen all the films and many of its parodies such as Spaceballs and Laugh It Up, Fuzzball: The Family Guy Trilogy. In the depths of one of our closets, there are multiple “copies” of episodes four through six on old CDs, a Taco Bell drink topper of young Anakin Skywalker on a podracer as a promotional tie-in for The Phantom Menace, and other space-related toys. My brother and I were never allowed to go in this closet, but now that we know that our father is, in fact, a Star Wars fan, we’re planning on seeing the new film with him during break.

C-3PO in My Heart - Haley Goetz I have always been enthralled by the whole cinematic spectacle Lucas created in the Star Wars films, especially when it came to one particular android. In A New Hope, C-3PO always held my attention more directly than any other character.

To me, he is the modern equivalent of a Shakespearean clown. He provides comic relief for a cast of characters who are stuck in an otherwise dark society. Not only did 3PO crack some wise jokes, but he also dispelled necessary advice that, had it not been said, some characters would have wound up in grave danger. Most everything C-3PO stated in the films had a deal of weight, and that is what made me enjoy him so much.

I feel that without him, the cast of characters in the Star Wars cinematic universe would not be as strong or memorable as they currently are to fans of the series. Without him, I would not be the Star Wars enthusiast I am today.

Feature // A Long Time Ago

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Chewie: A Toy Story - Casey Simonson

I learned a brief but important lesson about the Star Wars universe this week in the process of trying to locate information on a toy I had as a child: I know very little about it, and I shouldn’t bother trying to understand it. This comes to the front of my mind because I vividly remember my father, who frequently would go on business trips when I was younger, returning home once with the coolest Chewbacca action figure I had ever seen. He had come wild robotic armor and what I was until recently calling a “robot eye”—although I have now learned that the George Lucas-approved term is “cybernetic eye.” Unfortunately, the google search for “Robot Eye Chewbacca” didn’t really turn anything up. Instead, I discovered an expanded universe character called Snoova. I admitted defeat. I didn’t haven’t the coolest Chewbacca toy. I had the coolest, and presumably only, Snoova toy. My childhood was flipped upside down. All of those tall tales I had conjured about why Chewie might have robot eyes were now entirely invalidated.

That is, until a few minutes ago, when I discovered through a toy collecting website that the toy I had was in fact, Chewbacca. Not only was it Chewbacca, but through some bizarre in-universe explanation, this website divulged to me that Chewbacca was actually in disguise as Snoova for some reason.

Both childhood Casey and adult Casey were absolutely elated by this discovery: The child in me content to know that I did totally have the coolest Chewbacca toy, and adult Casey proud to have the most nonsensical Chewbacca toy. The Star Wars universe is a dark and confusing place, but thankfully, characters apparently disguise themselves as each other all the time.

Late to the Party- Austin Gold

Chewie - Kristen Karaliunas

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Around the time of its release, someone bought me a poster for The Phantom Menace.

And why wouldn’t they? I was a kid, and what kid doesn’t love Star Wars? Well, I didn’t love Star Wars. And I still don’t. Let me explain.

I didn’t see any of the films—original or prequel—until I went to college. When I tell people this they respond by going “Really?” or by yelling many words we shouldn’t print in this magazine. I get their anger. I’m the same way when people tell me they’ve never watched a Simpsons episode. I grew up watching that show religiously and can’t imagine life without it. And the fans that yell at me grew up watching Star Wars religiously.

Had I seen The Phantom Menace when I was a child, I might be one of them, because chances are I would have loved it. One of the most interesting things about the Star Wars fandom is the generational divide for who loves or hates the prequels. The people who love them are usually the ones who grew up with them.

To everyone else, they suck. I’ve found this is because Star Wars is tied to an almost childlike cinematic wonderment. Watching A New Hope for the first time at 18, I imagined my four-yearold self watching it from the VCR and realizing just how big the universe could be. The idea that there’s something incredible out there just beyond the stars! It’s a powerful feeling, especially for a kid. No wonder people claimed the prequels ruined their childhood.

Feature // A Long Time Ago

Storytime at the Opera House - Elizabeth Esten If you mention the prequel films to a group of Star Wars fans, you’ll likely be stuck in a screaming match about how terrible Jar Jar Binks among other topics. My personal view of the prequels envisions them more as a welcome continuation of an incredible trilogy of films. While they are incredibly flawed in a cinematic sense, there are some good aspects to them if you look deeper. One of my favorite moments in the entire Star Wars cinematic universe is the opera house scene from Revenge of the Sith. In this scene, Palpatine tells Anakin the story of a man named Darth Plagueis: a man with such great control of the force that he was not only able to create life, but also prevent others from dying, teaching these skills to an apprentice before his death. This scene isn’t effective just because of the editing or even the performances, but the way the emperor goes about convincing Anakin to convert to the dark side. It’s not through exposition, but through a tale passed on from sith to sith. Though it is implied that Palpatine was said apprentice, this can also be seen as Palpatine manipulating the story to fit his needs. This small scene is a shining light of brilliance in a sea of crap.

Han Solo and the Art of Cool Ryan Ciecwisz “Han Solo or Luke Skywalker” was the “Beatles or Rolling Stones” of my childhood. The kids that were “little angels” were always Luke Skywalker kids. Incorruptible. But I was always more interested in Han Solo. Luke got lucky and happened to be born with an unusual strength in the Force, but Han had to make his own luck.

He was gruff, resourceful, and just so damn cool. Consider this: after being given an admission of love by the woman he’d been in love with for three years, Han Solo calmly responded, “I know.” That is the kind of cool that melts your face right off.

The Luke kids couldn’t recognize that cool. All they saw was Luke’s lightsaber and they were immediately drawn to him. Not me. Luke may have been swinging sabers with Vader, but Han was able to make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. Han was able to fry Greedo in a cantina, and then give the owner a tip for “the mess.” Han was able to survive being a wall ornament on a sexually depraved slug-monster’s wall. Han was the absolute coolest.

Feature // A Long Time Ago

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For the Love of Film I’ve been told that the first film I ever saw was James and The Giant Peach. I was a baby at the time, so I have no memory of that, but apparently it made a huge impression on me. There’s something about cinema that stands out from other mediums. I think that it combines the best parts of everything else. Stories/narratives from literature, performances from theatre, and scores and soundtracks from music. Television came afterward, but film could be considered a streamlined version of TV. All of this is impressive, but the technical aspects aren’t why I love film.

Within my friend circles, I’ve often been considered the most knowledgeable person about cinema and Hollywood. This doesn’t mean too much, though, considering none of my friends became film majors or anything even related to that. I’m often surprised when a friend doesn’t know the names of characters and celebrities or certain films that I’ve seen multiple times. Someone once told me that he wasn’t really into movies and didn’t watch them, and I almost felt personally insulted.

Cinema is a part of me. When I think of stories, I always visualize them and see them as films. When I listen to music, I often think of how the song could fit into a scene and one of my biggest hopes as an aspiring filmmaker is to someday be able to use my favorite songs in my work. But my knowledge and mindset regarding film aren’t the only reasons why I love it.

I love film because of the worlds it creates. I love how movies get me to feel as though I’m part of it all. Shortly after I came to Ithaca, I was told by more than one professor that I wouldn’t be able to let myself be “sucked into” films anymore. I appreciate the idea because learning about films in class involves figuring out how to make them, instead of merely watching for entertainment. Films are, from one perspective, mechanisms that depend on the skills of everyone involved. It’s important that we understand this because one error in their making can have many repercussions.

But that’s not all there is to cinema, because for me, getting “sucked in” is the entire point. It’s to get invested in the characters and the settings. It’s to experience emotions and be taken on a ride. It’s to be brought somewhere else. Learning through observation and watching for entertainment are not mutually exclusive. Films should be appreciated for how they are made, but they become more than the sum of their parts if done correctly. They inspire others. They develop from the contribution of everyone that works on them and everyone that watches them to almost become a new entity.

Whenever I’ve had a bad day or if I’m just depressed, a good film can go a long way in cheering me up. A lot of the time, it’s even a way to feel like I’m not alone, whether that means the characters keep me company (in a way), or I just take comfort in the fact that I’m not the only fan of a film.

I love film because of the limitless possibilities. They can be as vast as the Star Wars saga or as simple as a philosophical dinner between two friends in My Dinner with Andre. They could take place after the end of the world or in the early days of existence.

In a galaxy far, far away or a farm. Films harness imagination and use it to inspire us. In a way, I feel as though I was raised by cinema. My early exposure to the Austin Powers series inspired some of my goofier humor, while Hercules, X-Men and Spider-Man each taught me different morals and inspired me to try helping others. Part of the reason why my favorite film is Kick-Ass is because I relate so strongly to the title character, as I’ve always wanted to be a hero. In cinema, anyone can become a force for good, and that’s always felt inspiring. To me and countless others, cinema is a nearly infinite reservoir of ideas, and I can’t imagine my life without it.

Sam Braverman ‘18 // Contributing writer

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For the Love of Film

Head to Head Combative criticism Courtesy of Criterion Collection

Discourse: Wes Anderson

by Haley Goetz & John Lunden

John: One of the things I’ve noticed since coming to Ithaca College is everyone’s infatuation with Wes Anderson, which I think is bewildering and not necessary. I’ll admit that he’s an impressive technical director, but in reality, Anderson’s a one-trick pony who’s used to using a lot of symmetry and forced onepoint perspective, along with employing cardboard characters who only have one emotion. I think he’s severely lacking as a director (especially with regard to his storytelling abilities), and as a result, we should remove him from the canon that so many film students seem to put him in.

Haley: I personally feel that Anderson is worthy of his reputation as an influential director. He should be remembered for his consistency over a large body of work that is comparable to directors such as Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese in terms of quantity. I also feel that the cinematographic qualities of his films are worthy of recognition, in that he took a technique such as one-point perspective and spun off to create something completely new and fresh.

John: His forced one-point perspective, while an impressive skill, is overused in his films, almost to the level of it being a fetish. Yes, he has amassed a large body of work, but what makes the individual pieces of work different? Think about The Royal Tenenbaums or Rushmore— films about a kid falls who in love with a quirky girl and it doesn’t quite work out for him. In The Grand Budapest Hotel, while that’s not the only plot theme present in the film, it still is a main focus of the story. When you look at Moonrise Kingdom you see the same thing, except the characters are younger. All these stories are set in this world showing Anderson’s fetish for 1950’s nostalgia. He may have a large body of work, but his films shouldn’t be comparable to a director like Scorsese, who has shown so much range.

Haley: The one thing I really like about Anderson’s work, is how it blends the extraordinary and the ordinary into something that is truly believable.

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Courtesy of Fox Searchlight Pictures

Within The Royal Tenenbaums, for example, I like how he expresses depressing human conditions in a very lighthearted manner. He provides a fantastical way of seeing things that not a lot of directors have been able to capture, and I think that that is why so many people like him. He takes these unsavory qualities of living and turns them into something beautiful and uplifting.

I feel that this is why a lot of angsty teenagers enjoy Anderson’s films.

John: You can say that his films appeal to angsty teenagers, but so do other terrible films (look at Twilight). In my opinion, angsty teenagers shouldn’t be setting the taste, and while it is good that he’s able to make these darker facets of human life uplifting, I think there are many directors who do it even better. I don’t think it’s unfair to compare Wes Anderson to cartoons, because that’s basically the pallette of stylistic choices he makes, the only difference being: he uses real people. To me he’s like a cartoon that’s trying to take itself too seriously, but in way that isn’t so charming.

Haley: Anderson is very forced, that is for sure.

But, coming from a film student’s perspective, I feel that it’s important to study and learn from him. In my production classes, I’m learning about all of these rules and regulations that govern practical filmmaking, such as three-point lighting, the rule of thirds and important lines of symmetry. The thing about Anderson is that he is a very technical director to study.

Every single shot of an Anderson film, as comparable to Kubrick, is completely symmetrical. There’s always a character who is in the center of the frame, and he provides a great sense of compositional balance in his films that is important to study if you are looking to get into the field. The other thing about Anderson is that he’s an example of someone who follows rules, but also breaks them from time to time. He shows that rules can be broken in regards to lighting and changing aspect ratios such as in The Grand Budapest Hotel.

Head to Head // Discourse

Anderson proves that it’s possible to create meaningful film art using unconventional strategies.

John: I’ll give you that the changing of aspect ratios is something interesting that Anderson does. I have a hard time coming up with other directors who have done that; however, all of Anderson’s other techniques, have been done by other directors, because he’s a postmodern filmmaker, meaning these directors steal from the past. Personally, if you’re going to be stealing from the past, why not just go right to the source: to people such as Hitchcock or even Welles, who developed most of these rules that we talk about.

We credit Welles with reinventing film grammar as we know it. Anderson is only important because he’s a modern technical director. There are plenty of thematically-driven directors who are just as technically well­versed as him who are also more well-rounded as storytellers, like Kubrick, who was cutting­edge in both the stories and the technicalities of his films.

Haley: I think it would be worthwhile to talk about T​he Grand Budapest Hotel f​or a bit, because I personally feel like that was Anderson’s landmark achievement in filmmaking. I thought his most recent film was an example of really good storytelling in that Anderson essentially created an alternate history. He created an alternate universe, a history around this universe and a set of characters within this universe. The film was also very believable in that anyone could see the society depicted in the story as actually being a real society.

John: I’ll admit that ​Grand Budapest w ​ ould be the Anderson film I’ve enjoyed the most. Even though he creates an interesting setting that isn’t just a nostalgia-fied version of 1950’­s/1980’s America, he does the same thing he always does, which is showing a slightly awkward teenage boy falling in love with a slightly quirky teenage girl. The world he creates and the use of changing aspect ratios within the film helps enrich the overall work, but these things are offset by the film needing to be so “Wes Anderson­-y” that it can’t stand on its own. You have to know the rest of his body of work in order to enjoy it.

Haley: I should note that I also feel that Anderson ought to be regarded as an influential director when it comes to making films for children. His other films, such as Fantastic Mr. Fox ​and Moonrise Kingdom ​appeal to a very child­-centered audience without eschewing certain intellectually satisfying sensibilities. I think that’s pretty interesting. I think that both of the stories in those two films were quite original.

The thing about Anderson is that he’s not a director

made for people over or under a certain age, he’s not a fantastically violent director like Scorsese and he’s not a macabre director like Guillermo del Toro—he’s a director for all audiences and all tastes. I think this is something that’s wildly unique about him.

John: He has done some work for the children/ family genre, sure. If you look at F​antastic Mr. Fox a ​ nd ​ Moonrise Kingdom​, however, it goes right back to the Wes Anderson crutch of using nostalgia. To me, that’s just as weak as some of the crutches that Disney uses to keep bringing back audiences. I think it’s interesting that you mention his universal appeal, but to me that’s just him being bland. While it’s true that not every film has to be as violent as Scorsese or as dark and unsettling as del Toro, they should at least provoke some emotion. But all Wes Anderson manages to evoke is, once again: nostalgia. This, to me, is not something that should be celebrated.

Artwork by Kristen Chung

Haley: Personally I really like films that have nostalgia, I think it provides a lot of depth. I’ve always enjoyed films that go back in time, even though I haven’t been alive for times like the 70’s or 80’s. I still think that nostalgic films can not only carry a lot of depth, but also a lot of humanism. The characters in Anderson’s films carry a lot of weight through their nostalgic qualities because they deal with collective memory. In G​rand Budapest ​especially, it’s possible to make a lot of connections to our present society through the characters.

John: Nostalgia to me is pretty much like pornography. It’s like this sudden release of dopamine in your brain, because yes, it brings you back to a specific place in time that has a collective memory, but it’s not a real memory because everything is completely whitewashed to be very happy and quaint and quirky.

That’s what Anderson goes for, and it’s just cheap.

Haley: I will definitely say that an Anderson

Head to Head // Discourse

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film is reminiscent of a white clapboard house in Maine. His films have a very dreamy landscape that is something out of a Monet painting. As mentioned before, I think his films do carry a lot of depth, but when you think about Wes Anderson, you don’t think about the stories or the deeper meaning behind the stories. Instead, you think about the beautiful visuals that he provides. He is wonderfully creative when it comes to his use of color, symmetry and framing; however, I will admit that a lot of his stories do have a lack of depth. I will go back to G​rand Budapest, though, because I think that showed a very interesting quasi-­historical viewpoint on World War II, in that it dealt with a lot of the struggles people in Europe faced. Anderson incorporated a lot of elements that were fantastical and lighthearted, while also taking oppression into account, as he went into the paranoia people had during the war. He presented this in a very underhanded way that was also quite profound, and that, ultimately, is what drew me into the story of that particular film.

John: Anderson does have a lot to technically offer, but the techniques he’s using have been used by other people. He uses this nostalgia for the past as a crutch to make his stories have a mass appeal that ultimately just make them bland. Grand Budapest ​may step out of the light from the rest of these, but even some of the worst directors in history have had a good movie at some point. I don’t think we should continue to have this unwarranted love for him, but instead maybe relegate him into the corner of one ­trick pony directors.

Haley: I feel that Anderson definitely has created a unique vision through his films. He should be remembered as a director who did something new.

He has made films that challenge certain beliefs, films that address history and films that appeal to a mass audience. Ultimately, I feel that he not only should be studied but also watched by many for the pure, simple pleasure that an Anderson picture can provide.

Courtesy of Critrion Collection

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Head to Head // Discourse

Red State vs. Tusk

by Elizabeth Esten

Courtesy of Lionsgate

Heavily inspired by the Westboro Baptist Church and the late Fred Phelps, Red State was the first foray into horror for Kevin Smith (who is largely known for quirky comedies like Clerks and Dogma).

The film tells the story of three teenage boys living in a small town who end up drugged and kidnapped by the local Five Points Trinity Church after being tempted by a sex ad online. Led by Abin Cooper (Michael Parks), the church is responsible for the murders of many local gay teenagers. Red State had the potential to be a great horror thriller and a solid commentary on fundamentalist churches. Unfortunately, the final product isn’t as tight as it should have been.

The story is good, the dialogue is solid, the editing is well done and the cinematography is great.

Where the problems come in is the execution. Smith seems to unravel in his direction by the second act, losing any semblance of social commentary and resorting to violence for shock value. The script does have solid set ups. Stephen Root’s repressed gay sheriff character would be a good example of this, but he is only really used so the plot can move forward, essentially becoming useless. But despite its general flaws, the film has one brilliant factor: Michael Parks’ Abin Cooper.

The character of Abin Cooper is brilliant in every conceivable way. Smith clearly put a lot into the him and Parks embodies the character. The best scene in the film, by a wide margin, is when Cooper is preaching to his congregation about God’s hatred and “the evils of homosexuality.” What makes this scene so effective is the simplest thing: Smith cuts away to young children watching Cooper in awe, seeing him as some sort of godlike figure. This is the most powerful moment of the film and one of my favorite moments of Smith’s entire filmography.

Courtesy of A24

Smith delved back into horror merely three years after Red State with Tusk, inspired by a posting on the British equivalent of Craigslist. Leaning more toward the comedic side of horror, Tusk brings Michael Parks back as another crazy man who shakes up the life of our main character—Justin Long’s insufferable Wallace having taken over that role. Tusk is more entertaining, but it’s very similar Red State in that the potential for a good horror movie is buried under a series of terrible decisions.

While the tone of Red State was consistently serious, Tusk jumps in tone from straight comedy to straight horror with a complete lack of balance across the board. Some scenes are so distant from each other in tone, it feels like you’re watching different movies.

The comedy works at no point in the film and although Johnny Depp’s inspector character is a solid idea, he’s poorly written. The only reason this film even exists is to showcase the insanity that is Michael Parks.

Smith has gone on record saying that his intentions behind Tusk have always been to create a messed up character for Parks to play, and the actor is the only reason you should watch the film.

Parks’ Howard Howe is the best-written character here, and Parks’ performance is best in show.

You can really tell throughout the film that Smith loves the Howe character the most and did his best to center the movie around him. The scenes with Parks are more effectively done, more interesting and more entertaining than any others. Howe has lost all faith in humanity and it’s a great portrayal of what the extremes of isolation at a young age can permanently do to a person’s mental state. There’s a good reason why Wallace is a terrible person, and it’s because we’re really seeing him from Howe’s point of view. The only way the film can work is to make Wallace merely a victim of Howe’s actions.

Conclusion:

Both of Kevin Smith’s attempts at a fresh genre are incredibly flawed. It’s amazing that two movies of the horror persuasion can come to a director whose major successes are largely in comedy. Both films had great potential, one making a commentary on a real life incident and the other creating a spectacle of a man being sewed into a walrus costume. While Tusk is the more entertaining watch, Red State has a better concept with a flimsier execution. Both should be witnessed, though—but only for Michael Parks’ amazing performances.

Head to Head // Versus

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Spider-Man series vs. Amazing Spider-Man films

by Courtney Ravelo

Courtesy of Sony Pictures Entertainment

Tobey Maguire was a beloved Spider-Man. He embodied a heroic, modest and humble version of this Marvel character that so many people have come to love.

This version of the Spider-Man comics had Mary Jane as Peter Parker’s main love interest, and Kirsten Dunst embodied her character flawlessly. Maguire and Dunst had decent on-screen chemistry, circling around each other for the three movies, showing sincere love and heartbreak in their eyes when needed. James Franco was even a suitable Harry Osborn—best friend to Peter Parker and later, enemy to Spider-Man. The series was properly cast to say the least. But what was important about these movies was the villains Spider-Man fought.

In the first film, the plot revolves around Peter being bitten by a radioactive spider and transforming into Spider-Man. The villain for this movie is the Green Goblin, otherwise known as Norman Osborn, Harry’s father. The second movie introduces Doctor Octopus, bringing the total villain count to two; one for each film. Makes sense, right? That’s probably why most people were confused when the third movie came out. There was not one, not two, but three villains Spider-Man was supposed to focus on, and the subplots were overwhelming. As the last film in the series, Spider-Man 3 didn’t quite cut it to tie up the Peter Parker’s story. It left some parts open-ended, giving people hope for a fourth movie, but no such movie came.

The action scenes are what really got audiences hooked. My personal favorite was at the end of the second movie, when Peter is fighting Doc Ock in his lair. It was a dynamic finale to a second movie packed with thrills. There was also the scene at the end of Spider-Man 3, in which Mary Jane is suspended in a taxi by webs, ready to fall. Sandman is pummeling the Green Goblin for trying to help Spider-Man, while Venom is being disintegrated by Peter banging on poles in the construction site, and although it feels overwhelming because there is a lot going on, the non-stop action keeps the audience on edge.

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Courtesy of Sony Pictures Entertainment

Andrew Garfield played an entirely different kind of Spider-Man than Tobey Maguire did. He seemed to have more fun with the part, as his version of the character was cheeky and humorous, spitting out one-liners every couple of minutes. The love interest in the rebooted series was Gwen Stacy, played by Emma Stone.

Garfield and Stone had unstoppable chemistry, which might be because they started dating in real life. You could tell they were pulled to each other, always locking eyes and wearing their hearts on each other’s sleeves.

The action and effects in these two movies were just as good as the original Spider-Man series. One particular highlight was the second movie’s terrifying and gut-wrenching finale, in which Peter defeats Electro and starts fighting the Green Goblin at the electricity plant, while simultaneously trying to save Gwen; however, the same mistake that plagued Raimi’s Spider-Man 3 reappeared in director Marc Webb’s second installment: too many villains. The Amazing Spider-Man 2 not only had Electro, but also Harry Osborne’s development into the Green Goblin. Rhino made an appearance as well, bumbling in at the end and leaving the series open for a third installment. It was difficult to focus on any one of these villains, as they got in the way of each other.

What I loved about this series, though, was the obvious war Peter was fighting within himself. Captain Stacy (Gwen’s father) made Peter promise to stay away from her for her own safety at the end of the first movie, and throughout the sequel, Peter is desperately trying to keep that promise. He breaks up with her twice, each time heartbreaking, and avoids her, struggling to suppress his feelings for her all the time. But he falters, and decides to sacrifice being Spider-Man to be with her forever. Unfortunately, Gwen dies at the end, leaving Peter in a deep depression and putting Spider-Man out of commission for five months. Eventually, he comes back, giving the people of Manhattan hope and imbuing fans with a sense of pride, confirming that their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man will always be around.

Head to Head // Discourse

Conclusion: These two versions of Spider-Man are all but tied for me. On the one hand, the original series has better developed relationships (between Peter, Uncle Ben and Harry, as well as between Harry and his father). On the other hand, in the Amazing movies, Peter’s love for Gwen exceeds all boundaries and the villain he makes of himself is a more captivating fight than what he faces with the actual villains. Maguire’s Spider-Man is more somber, while Garfield’s is more entertaining. Overall, I think The Amazing Spider-Man ends up stealing my heart. To me, Peter’s struggle in those films makes the story of Spider-Man so much more enriching.

Soundtrack Corner Oldboy (2003) - composed by Jo Yeong-wook

by Jacob Sullivan Essential to the film’s artistic success, Jo Yeong-wook’s score elevates the violent revenge of 2003’s Oldboy into a beautifully emotional tale of loss and tragedy. The orchestral compositions compliment the dramatic scenes and simultaneously contrasting with the violent ones (giving the carnage a waltz-like quality, while also uncovering the emotional reasoning behind said violence). The tragedy of each character is also exposed through the music—most notably in the case of the villain, whose theme, “Cries and Whispers” reveals his humanity. The classical score gives Oldboy a timeless and poetic feel that allows it to supersede its violent subject matter.

Courtesy of Kino Lorber

Peter Pan (2003) - composed by James Newton Howard

by Courtney Ravelo The original score for Peter Pan by the talented composer James Newton Howard is one of my favorite things to listen to. Pieces like “Tinkerbell” have fairy-like qualities and light jingling noises to signify her gliding around the room. “Flying” represents all the beauty of what a first flight to Neverland should feel like. Meanwhile, “I Do Believe in Fairies” is towards the end of the movie and has the most beautiful climax, starting small with Tinkerbell’s death before swelling and crescendoing until she’s back to life again.

Courtesy of Universal Studios

The Conversation (1974) - composed by David Shire

by Kevin Fermini A soundtrack as haunted as its film’s central protagonist, David Shire’s score for The Conversation adds an incredible layer to an already marvelous work of cinema. Gene Hackman’s character, Harry Caul, navigates the ghostly quiet streets of San Francisco: a man lost in a moral dilemma and alienated from the world around him. Meanwhile Shire’s score, a solo piano performance, wanders through minor keys, lost and paranoid; afraid and agitated. It feels as if—like Harry—the score could dive off-course at any moment with Shire’s dizzying minor arpeggios moving sharply across his piano.

An effective, lonely score which embodies the cold chill of isolation to a tee.

Courtesy of Paramount Pictures

Head to Head // Discourse

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For the Love of Film When I was younger, I was diagnosed with a terminal disease. I had contracted cinephilia at the age of three. Now, whether or not that joke was in good taste isn’t the point. The point is that now you’re trapped, reading every word I write. I am here to share with you how the cinephilia started. This is the story of how I fell in love with movies.

My earliest memory is of when I was three: I saw a movie that changed my life.

You’re probably wondering how much my life could possibly change at the age of three.

But I saw a movie that changed the course and direction of my life. When I was three, I watched Jaws. I know what you’re thinking: “What a great kids movie!” You’re also probably questioning my parents’ ability to censor what I watch. But they didn’t have control over it. My uncle showed me the movie, probably with the intention to scare me.

But while the movie did scare me, I’ll never forget the first time I watched it. I was completely captivated—my eyes were glued to the screen for the entire runtime. And after I watched the movie, I needed to see the bonus features. I needed to know how they did that. I remember watching the behind the scenes documentaries and feeling a complete sense of wonder come over me. I was in love with film and I knew it at that moment. I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

Everyone had “that movie.” You know what I’m talking about. The movie that you watched every day—the movie that never got old. For me it was Jaws, and you could probably imagine what my parents and grandparents thought seeing this young boy watching people getting brutally mutilated by a giant great white shark everyday. You’d probably question the child’s moral compass or at the very least his likely destiny of ending up behind bars. But I didn’t watch it for the violence, I watched it for the story, the characters, the score—for everything. It blew me away and whenever I watch it today, it still does.

As I was growing up, a question every kid asked was: “What’s your favorite movie?” It’s a common question asked by your teachers and peers as they try to break the ice in school. But I was always the standout on that question. I’ll never forget any of the teachers’ faces as answers shifted from Toy Story to the latest Barbie movie to Jaws. My answer was always the black sheep of the pack and always garnered the same odd look from the face of every adult that heard my answer. I would love to know what they were thinking after I told them that. I’m sure it’d be something funny.

Film has inspired me for years and continues to inspire me now. I am constantly taken aback by how far things have come and how rapidly things have changed. It seems that every year that there is a film that is breaking new ground in terms of technology.

Pushing all that to the side, there’s one particular memory that strikes me now. I remember being about four. I was doing my daily routine of watching Jaws when my mother came into the room. I pointed to the screen and said, “I want to do that.” She probably shrugged it off because who would believe a four year old would be crazy enough to want to make movies. But that crazy four year old is now in college, getting another step closer to living his dream.

Anthony Di Nizo ‘19 // Contributing Writer

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For the Love of FIlm

Criticism Critical analysis of work from past to present Courtesy of Paramount Pictures

Spectre (Mendes, 2015)

by Justin Madore

In 2012, director Sam Mendes did the impossible for the 23rd entry in one of cinema’s most iconic franchises. With Skyfall, he proved that interesting and innovative stories could be told in the Bond universe, beautifully presenting a surprisingly human narrative with the perfect mixture of action, humor and nostalgia. Immediately heralded as a classic Bond movie, it put Daniel Craig on a pedestal that only Sean Connery had stood on before.

Following this massive achievement, the newest iteration in the Bond franchise had a lot to prove.

With Mendes back to direct, Spectre chooses to ignore the serialized past of the series and continue the story of Craig’s Bond. MI6 is in shambles at the beginning of the film. A new government agency aims to unify the world’s intelligence and utilize the technology of the era, turning to digital surveillance and effectively killing the Double O program. Bond, sensing danger, has started operating beyond his jurisdiction, hunting secrets exposed in the aftermath of his battle with Silva. In typical Bond fashion, Spectre opens with an incredible sequence taking place in Mexico City during the Day of the Dead celebration, with everyone decorated skeleton costumes. From the atmosphere of mystery to the epic helicopter fight, it tops the excitement of the previous entry’s opening in spades. Unfortunately, nothing else in the film ever seems to come close to topping it.

Spectre is classic Bond in the worst ways possible. While it continues the story of Craig’s Bond, it

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Courtesy of Columbia Pictures

never quite feels like the other films of Craig’s tenure.

The franchise has been moving towards a darker, more realistic narrative, but Spectre is campy, light and, occasionally doesn’t make sense. Bond makes huge leaps of logic that somehow work out in the end and physics just happen to accommodate his needs most of the time. It’s humorous how often coincidence works in his favor. It’s also decidedly old school in its portrayal of the “Bond Girl.” Léa Seydoux, while crucial to the story, is surprisingly reminiscent of Agent Kensington from the Austin Powers series, which parodied the very nature of the role she’s in. As a love interest, she makes no sense. She goes from repulsed by Bond to in love with him with almost no middle ground. It feels like a huge step back from Skyfall, which arguably lacked a character that fit the “Bond Girl” mold.

It’s not all bad, though, because classic Bond also has serious style. There’s a myriad of cool gadgets on display here, from exploding wrist watches to double barrel pistols. Bond also crashes his fair share of exquisite cars while wearing expensive suits and fighting enemies with his usual finesse. There’s also two dangerous new bond villains for him to best: Dave Bautista’s hulking Mr. Hinx (think the Mountain from Game of Thrones) and Christoph Waltz’s shadowy Franz Oberhauser. Oddly, Hinx ultimately overshadows Oberhauser, who turns out to be underwhelming. Waltz is incredibly underutilized in a role seemingly meant for him. The man known for giving us the

Criticism // Contemporary Reviews

haunting Hans Landa from Inglourious Basterds struggles to conjure up any of the same fear with a script that does a poor job of explaining his motivations.

However, the script manages to admirably build off the events of the last three films to craft one with a real sense of finality. Spectre takes their unanswered questions and nicely wraps them up in one grand narrative.

The problem is that the stories of those movies ultimately overshadow Spectre. It’s like Mendes and company are insistent on constantly reminding you that there are better movies in this franchise you could be watching.

One thing Spectre doesn’t skimp on is action and when that element takes center stage (which is frequently), it’s glorious. Just as the opening sequence sets the bar high, the rest of the action mostly maintains that level of intensity. It’s full of fist fights and explosions, all captured beautifully by cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema, who seamlessly matches Roger

Deakins’ impressive camera work from Skyfall. From claustrophobic traincar fist fights to sprawling chases down snowy mountains, the choreography is fast paced and top notch, rivaling other action movie classics. When the shit isn’t hitting the fan, it just feels like the film is buying extra minutes in between set pieces, drawing the runtime out too long in the process.

Spectre’s problems are a product of the franchise’s past. The idea to draw on the events on the last three Bond films is more interesting in premise than in execution. Coming off Skyfall, Spectre pales in comparison, carrying none of the danger or emotional weight of its predecessor. Instead, Bond is given back his superpowers. Still, as a straight up action film, it’s a step above the rest. For those seeking more classic Bond thrills, Spectre is undoubtedly satisfying. But if you’re looking for a worthy successor to Skyfall, you won’t find it here.

Cobain: Montage of Heck (Morgen, 2015)

by Jacob Sullivan

film playing out (as the title suggests) in montages full of Cobain’s art and music.

Cobain’s broad artistic output leads to the bio’s greatest strength: It allows Cobain to speak for himself. Cobain’s personal writing and artwork holds more weight as a source than anything his family could say. As Cobain, himself, says in an old interview: “It’s all in the music, man.” Morgen doesn’t try to paint his vision of Cobain through the info he displays. Instead, the film works much like an art exhibit. The art is presented to the audience and they can take from it what they see. Every question isn’t directly answered, but the willingness to trust the Courtesy of HBO Documentary Films audience is admirable and refreshing.

Montage of Heck could have easily been a ha Allowing for an open interpretation of Cobain’s giography, furthering the idealizing and canonizing work causes the film to avoid the mythmaking and the of Kurt Cobain. Arguably, no musician has been more canonizing commonly found in music documentaromanticized in the past thirty years than the Nirvana ries. Such films are usually tributes by fans, for fans, but frontman. Cobain, through the media and other films Montage of Heck could have been made about any artabout his life, has been elevated to a near-mythic staist, good or bad, famous or not, as it shows no special tus, and this film could have comfortably indulged in treatment to who Kurt was in the public eye. The biopic his mythos, especially with this being the first movie restrips away fame and public opinion, instead focusing garding Cobain to be officially authorized by his estate. solely on the man and his work. The look into Cobain’s But director Brett Morgen avoids hagiography, and inpsyche is intimate to the point of becoming uncomstead presents the most personal, emotional and intense fortable. While Cobain’s suicide may only be covered in documentary to ever explore Cobain’s life and work. one sentence, his depression and insecurity is delved

The film chronicles Cobain from before he was into with great detail. Cobain’s many mental issues and even born to his eventual suicide at the age of 27. With the complexities are shown through his work and interauthority of the estate, Morgen was given the freedom views with close friends and family, with much of the to spend eight years sifting through Kurt Cobain’s unrefilm giving context for the factors that led to his death. leased journals, drawings, home videos, recordings and The doc benefits not only from the interesting sound collages. The vast amount of material crammed source and his copious amounts of material, but also into the documentary is astounding, with most of the Brett Morgan’s direction, which makes the film much

Criticism // Contemporary Reviews

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more than a series of interviews and narrations, using varying methods to tell Cobain’s story. Multiple mediums are used to analyze Kurt including animation, interviews and concert footage. The use of animation is especially notable, allowing the filmmakers to visualize long audio recordings that otherwise might have been a chore to sit through. This is particularly well done in Kurt’s retelling of his traumatic first sexual experience with animation bringing the sparse recording to disturbing life, allowing the audience to not only hear the lonely, lost Kurt, but also see him. Similar energy is injected with the use of montage. Most of the film plays out as a music video, using Kurt’s journals, concert footage and photos as the visual aspect, and early demos, Nirvana recordings and reinterpretations of Nirvana classics as the audio.

The reinterpretations change the inflection of the alltoo-familiar songs. For example, one reinterpretation has a children’s choir sing “Smells like Teen Spirit,” which accentuates the sadness and dread of the song.

The film’s sole weakness is its run time. The two hours can become exhausting with the constant

fast paced momentum of the montages. Eventually, the sequences begin to retread previously covered ground from earlier in the film. The redundancy becomes apparent by the end of the first hour as Courtney Love enters the film and Nirvana becomes the most popular band in the world. This redundancy is also attributed to the fact that Kurt’s life, once he became famous, has been covered intensively by other films and news outlets.

Despite this weakness, Montage of Heck is a tour-de-force—the most impactful, personal, and original music documentary/biopic of the last decade.

Much like how Nirvana reinvented the tropes and form of rock music, Montage of Heck reinvents the music documentary. It delves past the fame and mythos and into Cobain’s psyche in a manner that is hard to watch and depressing, but wholly engaging. The power of the film was so immense, that I had to pause and take a breath before continuing, an accolade no other film has accomplished. It’s a film that any musician, artist, Nirvana fan or music fan should see. Watching it is to understand an individual and the whole artistic process.

When Marnie Was There (Yonebayashi, 2014)

by Byron Bixler

When I think of Studio Ghibli, I think of the magic its stories evoke. I think of the wondrous worlds its directors create and the deep, emotional wells they draw from. I think of its uniquely youthful perspective and the delicate earnestness with which it expresses its truths.

I also think of my preteen years.

Kiki’s Delivery Service was the first Ghibli film I ever saw; first viewed on a VHS tape I still own. It wasn’t until I reached age ten that I began to watch more from the Studio. I recall Cartoon Network playing a selection as part of a series of weekend Anime screenings.

It was Spirited Away, and stumbling upon its lush imagery and equally enchanting story one evening, I was utterly hypnotized by what I saw. I’d never seen films like this and I needed to seek out more of them. Of

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course, the others all followed.

Upon entering the theater this summer to see When Marnie Was There, I believed I was about to watch the Studio’s final film. With the rumors swirling in my head, the prospect of saying goodbye to the artists that brought such joy and poignance to my adolescent years stung terribly as that great, blue opening logo popped up onscreen. But luckily, the announcement of Ghibli’s closing has since been proven untrue, and rather than lamenting a terrible loss, I am left rejoicing, Courtesy of Gkids because if When Marnie Was There is the standard of quality going forward, Ghibli’s future is sure to be very bright.

This is a ghost story, but one where the residuals are tender rather than frightening. At the beginning, a young girl named Anna is sent to live with her aunt and uncle. She’s a foster child and she hates herself—bitterly saying she’s stupid and ugly, a burden and unable to fit in with everyone else. But she isn’t ugly and she isn’t stupid. Anna is just a misunderstood kid—sometimes lost and sometimes awkward, but highly observant, sensitive and troubled by the idea of not being genuinely loved. Always living on the edges of the frame, she withdraws into herself, sketching all the time, perhaps because a small, personalized rendering of the world around her is more bearable than the actual thing.

Criticism // Contemporary Reviews

Upon reaching the idyllic seaside town, Anna is drawn to an abandoned mansion nestled in the trees and overlooking a marsh. A golden-haired girl lives there, appearing in Anna’s dreams and materializing by the light of the moon. Her name is Marnie and she befriends Anna unconditionally. The girl’s history is ambiguous, but Anna seeks her out anyway, as she might be the only one who understands her.

This is a tremendously powerful film, but not in the way one might expect. It unravels at a slow, but natural pace and doesn’t force-feed plot points or character beats. It’s easy to miss the meaning of things, grasping for guidance at times, but that’s because When Marnie Was There doesn’t give you easy answers, at least not immediately. We’re allowed to be as lost as the protagonist (whose shyness and positioning as an outsider I thoroughly resonated with) and the questions posited in the meantime are compelling enough to keep us on board. It gives the audience just enough before unloading a late revelation that puts everything into perspective and packs an emotional wallop.

A film of such patience and sensitivity is rarely seen, especially for the young audience it’s intended for.

When Marnie Was There is what a real family film looks like. The issues its characters struggle with are real (sometimes to a startling degree) and intel-

ligently handled, free of pandering and overbearing low-brow humor. A child’s feelings about their parents, the perception of being an alien to the world around you and problems with self-esteem and the crippling fear of abandonment: all themes that are present and beautifully honest in their presentation. That’s not even mentioning the suggestions of mental illness and the light implications of sexual awakening. This is deep, heavy stuff and when filtered through the prism of a mysterious spectral tale, it becomes amazingly accessible. Entertaining in its imagination, but thought provoking as well: a Ghibli trademark wonderfully upheld.

The picture has a beautiful heart and personally, it managed to stir feelings and memories in me that I haven’t thought about in years. One doesn’t need to have an emotional history with Studio Ghibli to engage with this film, though. For anyone who takes it at its own pace, who was ever a child that coped with loneliness, that ever sought refuge from a seemingly hostile world or ever flirted for even a moment with the terrifying (and false) notion that they were unloved, this film is sure to evoke thoughts that will linger for a good while afterward. When Marnie Was There challenges the mind and warms the soul, powerfully capturing the complex wonders and pains of youth.

Jacob’s Ladder (Lyne, 1990) **SPOILERS**

by Gabriella Pakeman

Is this reality or the symptoms of an unspeakable terror? This is the question that pervades the life of Jacob Singer, the protagonist of director Adrian Lyne’s psychological horror film, Jacob’s Ladder. Lyne’s film was heavily influenced by a biblical story from Genesis pertaining to the meeting place between Heaven and Earth. It is also a rehash of Dante Alighieri’s Inferno, set in the post-Vietnam War era.

Centering on Singer’s reintegration into society following his traumatic experiences as a soldier in Vietnam, the movie opens with a scene of Jacob and his fellow troops enjoying each other’s company while having lunch together. Moments later, the light-hearted scene takes a turn for the worst, when the group is spontaneously massacred by the enemy. The deaths appear excruciatingly painful, with some exhibiting signs of catatonia and bloody convulsions. In an attempt to escape the carnage, Jacob runs into the jungle and is stabbed in the abdomen shortly after. The scene immediately draws to a close, leaving viewers both rattled and confused.

Before the audience has time to process what has happened, the film skips to a lonesome Jacob awakening from a nap on a subway train. He awakes just in time for the train’s arrival at his stop, but shortly

Courtesy of Lionsgate

upon exiting, finds himself imprisoned within the confines of the subway station. He begins to panic, desperately searching for an exit. His search grows increasingly frightening when he encounters a homeless man with a tail and what appears to be an old woman staring at him from the window of a passing train. The scene evokes the kind of suspense and urgency we tend to experience while having a nightmare. It was said that the idea for Jacob’s Ladder stemmed from screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin’s nightmare of being trapped in a subway. Rubin shares with his audience a dark, complex element of his subconscious, completely authentic

Criticism // Throwback Reviews

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in nature, making the scene all the more convincing.

It is now the 1980’s, and Jacob’s war days are far behind him. He is a postman, recently divorced, living with his girlfriend, Jezzie, in a small apartment. Despite establishing a new life for himself, he is plagued by flashbacks concerning his former wife and feelings of grief over the untimely death of their son. Jezzie incinerates numerous photos of Jacob’s wife and children. In her defense, she claims that doing so will allow him to heal from the past.

Throughout the film, Jacob struggles with the persistent, terrifying hallucinations of demonic entities (visually inspired by the paintings of Francis Bacon) trying to communicate an eerie message to him.

The hallucinations start to come about more frequently as the movie progresses, to the point at which Jacob begins to seek emotional support from his girlfriend; words of wisdom from his close-friend and chiropractor, Louis; and solutions from his surviving comrades, who contact him regularly about their similar symptoms. Jezzie cannot begin to comprehend the trauma Jacob is experiencing on a day to day basis, failing to give sympathy for a hallucination-induced panic attack he experiences at a party they both attend. Louis, on the other hand, provides him with not only support, but an insight into the key message of the film, saying: “The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that won’t let go of your life, your memories, your attachments. They burn’em all away. But they’re not punishing you… They’re freeing your soul… So… if you’re frightened of dying and… and you’re holding on, you’ll see devils tearing your life away. But if you’ve made your peace, then the dev-

ils are really angels, freeing you from the Earth.”

Jacob’s Ladder is a brilliant example of a movie that does not require gore and computer generated images to evoke a strong emotional response from its viewers. The washed-out, dreary cinematographic color schemes and juxtaposing ambient music soundtrack add to the psychologically disturbing nature of the movie. It is a known fact among those who study color psychology that sadness impairs color perception.When we think about emotional turmoil and depression in terms of color psychology, we see muted greys, blues and browns. Had the film’s aesthetic and visual palette been brighter (like, say, a Wes Anderson), the ongoing ominous feel throughout the film simply could not have been accomplished. The ambient music score only adds to the solemn, emotionally taxing nature of the film. It almost makes you feel as though you, yourself, are growing weary of the persistence and frequency of Jacob’s hallucinations.

The demons Jacob sees are a manifestation of his post-traumatic stress disorder: a byproduct of the drug he and his fellow veterans had been given to increase their levels of aggression on the Vietnamese battlefields. The chemical is referred to as “the Ladder,” which ironically, yet intentionally, shares a name with the most prominent motif in the film. All throughout the movie, there are recurring images of ladders and staircases in alleys, hallways and rooms. They symbolize Jacob’s growing need to realize that letting go and allowing himself to pass away will give him access to what lies ahead for him at the top of these stairs/ladders. This discovery (in terms of the literary works of Dante Alighieri) will enable him to leave the emotion-

Courtesy of Lionsgate

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Criticism // Throwback Reviews

ally draining Purgatory he had created for himself and consequently enter what would be regarded as Paradise/Heaven. Jacob’s girlfriend, Jezzie, is symbolic of the temptation to continue living in the earthly confines of this Purgatory. This temptation is demonstrated through the numerous scenes in which she is casually topless, seducing Jacob, ultimately distracting him from the reality of his inner turmoil.

At the very beginning of the film, Jacob is seen reading Albert Camus’ The Stranger. This is a prime example of Rubin and Lyne’s strategic attempt to introduce the viewers to what would eventually become the main theme of the film. Jacob Singer is very much similar to the protagonist of Camus’ novel. In The Stranger, protagonist Meursault struggles to come to terms with his impending execution at the prison. In a desperate attempt to ease his feelings of fear stemming from the inevitability of his fate, he imagines and dreams of his escape. Like Jacob Singer, he is fighting off the prospect of death. In the end, Meursault not

only grows to accept his fate, but welcomes it, for he knows that letting go of the physical world will bring him peace. The ending of Jacob’s Ladder suggests that Jacob arrives at a similar epiphany to that of Meursault.

Rubin and Lyne collaboratively toy with the film’s emphasis on the concept of life and death—the latter a concept that many people brush under the rug and don’t accept until it’s too late. They feed off this universal fear humans possess: that is, the fear of the unknown. Jacob spends the entirety of the film in a consistent state of fear because he does not comprehend the things he sees, strongly believing they have malevolent intent and will kill him. He is running away from the prospect of death, the way most people do in real life. Because of this relatable reaction, viewers are easily able to empathize with the troubled protagonist’s situation. The film is truly eye-opening and deserves a viewing by anyone who enjoys art forms that interact with their psyche.

Duel (Spielberg, 1971)

by Justin Bertolero

Duel takes place almost entirely on a two lane highway in the California desert. As David Mann (Dennis Weaver), a middle-aged salesman, drives home from a business trip, he notices a dilapidated, rusted-out semi-truck in his rearview mirror. As time goes on, he notices the vehicle getting closer and closer to him. Eventually, the interaction explodes into a 90-minute game of cat and mouse, equating to one large chase scene. Despite the fact that this was a film made for television, Spielberg makes this seemingly small picture feel much larger.

There are no obvious cuts or fade outs that would be used for a commercial break, making this appear even more like a theatrical release.

The film succeeds on the basis of its excellently paced chase seCourtesy of Universal Studios quences, utilizing classic Spielber Steven Spielberg is easily one of the most recoggian techniques. Spielberg often takes nizable names in modern cinema, having churned out large sweeping shots, showing the chase in the context hit movies since his breakthrough blockbuster, Jaws in of the empty highway, which only increases the view1975. Prior to this massive hit, Spielberg was hired by ABC er’s sense of isolation. When combined with the tight to direct a TV movie based on a Richard Matheson short shots of Mann sweating over the steering wheel and the story. After gaining popularity amongst viewers, the film close-ups of the behemoth truck, there is a tense, edgewas eventually pushed to a theatrical release in Austra- of-your-seat quality that stays constant throughout the lia, Europe, and a select number of theaters in America. entire film. One could even argue that Duel could hold Not only does Duel succeed as a great TV movie and the same effect if it were a silent movie. It heavily rea fantastic chase film, it also helped launch the career lies on its shot composition and musical score, causing of one of the most successful filmmakers of our time. the film’s few lines of dialogue to become secondary.

Criticism // Throwback Reviews

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One unique aspect of Duel is its use of a villain. Spielberg makes the wise choice of never once revealing the face of the man who drives the truck, which shifts the audience’s focus from the driver to the truck itself. The vehicle takes on a life of its own, personified as an ominous, looming antagonist. Spielberg had, at one point, even said that he picked that specific truck because the grill on the front resembled a face. By never centering the story on the human antagonist and instead focusing on the truck—clearly a more sizeable and formidable presence—he creates an even more terrifying and unstoppable subject to fear.

However, the suspense is not just limited to the scenes on the road. This is particularly evident in a restaurant sequence, in which Mann thinks he is finally free of his pursuer. But he soon starts to suspect that the truck driver might actually be in the restaurant with him.

The tension builds as he looks at each patron, his eyes frantically scanning the room. The psychological battle in his brain is completely palpable thanks to Weaver’s

excellent performance. His ability to convey the terror and paranoia of being followed extends beyond this scene, holding firm throughout the rest of the film Anyone can relate to driving alone at night and thinking, “that car has been following me for a while.” Duel expertly taps into that feeling, and plays out its worst case scenario. The most startling thing about the film is the lack of explanation. The viewer is left without any reasoning for the truck driver’s actions, harkening back to the old idea of good versus evil; the strong versus the weak. This playing with the ideas of power causes the viewer’s attachment to the blameless victim main character to grow even stronger.

Despite working under the stigmatic label of a humble TV movie, Spielberg went above and beyond the average “Film of the Week,” and created a picture that truly stands the test of time. Ignoring hindsight and the future of Spielberg, Duel remains a simple yet riveting chase film that holds its own against most other classics of the thriller genre.

Elf (Favreau, 2003)

by Erica Noboa

As Santa Claus (Edward Asner) makes his annual trip to deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he stops at a Catholic orphanage. Unbeknownst to Mr. Claus, an infant resident crawls into his toy sack and is whisked away to the North Pole. Upon realizing his accidental kidnapping, Santa and his elves unanimously agree to raise the orphan baby as one of their own. As the human named Buddy (Will Ferrell) is brought up in the elves’ foreign lifestyle, he acquires toy-making skills and learns the importance of Christmas, as well as how to maintain a positive outlook on everything. Even when he grows into an adult that towers over the elves, Buddy remains completely oblivious to his unavoidable humanness, but receives a rude awakening when he overhears two of his elf colleagues gossiping about his heritage.

Instantly, Buddy knows that he must leave the North Pole and venture out into the human world to find his biological parents. When asked, his adoptive dad explains that his mother passed away long ago and his father (James Caan) never knew that he was even born. Giving Buddy a snow globe of New York City, he informs his son that his biological father works inside the Empire State Building. With this information, the human elf sets out alone to the big city. Upon arrival, Buddy soon learns that his quest is much more complicated than he anticipated and comes into contact with numerous obstacles never found at the North Pole: Revolving doors. Elevators. Taxi cabs. The New York residents. Romantic attraction. And his father.

Elf highlights the importance of fatherhood and family bonding. With a protagonist that has a heart as big as the Arctic North—one who is innocent, compassionate and optimistic—it’s hard not to root for Buddy in his quest to gain his estranged father’s acceptance.

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The conflict of this story lies with said father, a curmudgeonly publisher named Walter (James Caan) who would be a top candidate for Santa’s naughty list. He’s an egotistical workaholic who cares more about making money than making his customers happy. Walter puts his profession before his family, alienating himself from his preteen son. The last thing this man wants to hear is that he has another son, let alone one that dresses as an elf and claims he’s from the North Pole. Walter’s faced with a huge decision: bond or reject his own flesh and blood. While his wife is very encouraging and compassionate about of the situation, Walter remains uncooperative and unwilling to accept Buddy as family. But by the film’s end, he is willing to quit his job and embrace the Christmas spirit in order to salvage his relationship with both of his sons.

With a pure-heart and an adorable naiveté, Buddy finds love when he meets Jovie (Zooey Deschanel), a somber-looking young woman working at a department store. Their relationship has a rocky start when Buddy sneaks into the women’s bathroom, innocently harmonizing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” as Jovie showers; however, with his elfish charms and only pure-intentions, she can’t help but fall for the strangely dressed man. Even though he is miles away from the North Pole, Buddy remains adamant about keep the Christmas spirit alive and thriving in a cynical New York. It is not until the end of the movie that Buddy is able to prove himself as a full-fledged elf. By helping Santa fly his sleigh and raising the Christmas morale for all New Yorkers with a little help from his family, Buddy finally finds a place for himself in a world that initially seemed to want nothing to do with him.

Directed by Jon Favreau, a seasoned actor who

Criticism // Throwback Reviews

Courtesy of New Line Cinema

has also dabbled in screenwriting (Chef, Swingers), Elf is a charming family Christmas movie that spreads holiday joy—something recent Christmas films have been lacking. The movie succeeds due to its viscous goodhearted cheer that wildly overdoes it (to a hilarious degree). But a counterbalancing sense of restraint comes from a witty script by David Berenbaum, and also from the performances of two beloved old sitcom personalities—Ed Asner and Bob Newhart—as Santa and his “Papa Elf,” respectively. The responsibility for the overdone quality belongs to the oafishly adept Will Ferrell.

Favreau’s direction has a relaxed, swinging rhythm to it, which reflects his acting style and while the big, chaotic

scenes sometimes lack polish and precision. Elf happily forgoes the slick, hyper-active aggression that makes so many live-action holiday comedies so exhausting.

This movie is an instant Christmas classic that highlights the importance of family and wants its younger audience to walk away with the knowledge that being odd is nothing to be ashamed of: It only makes you unique.

Criticism // Throwback Reviews

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The Films of Larry Clark & Harmony Korine

by Haley Goetz

Kids (Clark, 1995) The story of how Kids was made is legendary. A young Harmony Korine was skateboarding when he came across Larry Clark, a photographer that he idolized. They got to talking and that night, Korine began to crank out the Kids screenplay.

About a week later, the 19-year-old delivered his script to Clark. Right away, the two of them got to making one of the best independent films of all time. The cast of characters was found directly on the streets of Manhattan and some of the amateur actors would become wildly famous soon after.

Kids not only perfectly captures the vibrancy of adolescence, Courtesy of Lionsgate but also the escalating paranoia surrounding the AIDS crisis. Centered around a loosely connected group of New York City teenagers, the film tackles a variety of complex topics in a subdued, yet raw manner. A big controversy surrounded the film at the time of release, concerning the fact that the film’s sexually explicit content featured such young actors. Putting this aside, it becomes apparent just how profound an impact Kids has had on the filmmaking community since its release.

Gummo (Korine, 1997) Two years after writing Kids, Korine went on to both write and direct Gummo. Another striking feature that holds a lot of layers, Gummo brings with its characters a supreme sense of alienation. The story is based around a group of townsfolk from Xenia, Ohio who live through a tornado and its devastating effects. The action of the film takes place both before and after the tornado in question, and the actual disaster is never shown in concrete detail. Korine’s nihilism and sense of beauty is apparent in great detail throughout. There is a very strong juxtaposition between these two tones as they are expressed through the film’s cinematography and characters. The openCourtesy of Warner Bros. ing sequence is reminiscent of a classical painting, whereas the wayward boy it shows demonstrates Korine’s nihilistic writing in action. Korine establishes that this character feels nothing towards the world, and this only becomes more clear as the loosely constructed narrative continues. The rest of the characters in the film also have wayward spirits. No one is going anywhere, and the location of the film breeds this degree of nothingness. While Gummo is a fairly vague film, it is still a great piece of cinematic art that should be given a view.

Ken Park (Clark & Lachman, 2002) Easily Clark’s second most famous film, Ken Park returns to a youth-centered world focused around skateboarding (which was originally explored in Kids). Instead of Manhattan, the location of this film is a small town in California. A palpable depression hangs over the place, and this becomes strikingly apparent in the first major scene of the film. Every character deals with some struggle, albeit on scales of varying size. Clark integrated his characters better in this film, as the story revolves around a gamut of ages. It becomes clear Courtesy of Vitagraph Films about halfway through the film just how universally connected everyone is. This effect is especially transparent in such a small town setting. Ken Park is an example of a film that transcends boundaries and lines that hadn’t previously been crossed in cinema. There are

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more sexually-­charged scenes than in Clark’s earlier films. The physical content of this is quite visceral, as is the visible humanism that could be seen as the film progressed. This intertwining of unity and vulnerability had never been shown in something Clark had made before, and that is why K​en Park ​has become a film of merit.

Mister Lonely (Korine, 2007) Mister Lonely ​is less of a film than it is a visual poem.

The shots are profound, all-encompassing and beautiful. One can easily see Korine’s progression as a visual artist. This being one of his later films, it’s clear that cameras of better quality were used. The story itself is rather languid. “Movement” would be a valid word to describe what is seen on the screen. Korine paces the film almost as if it were a slow dance.

From the first shot of a Michael Jackson impersonator dancing on a Parisian plaza to a shot of a group Courtesy of IFC of nuns floating in the waves of a tropical locale, everything is done deliberately slowly. This brings the viewer to the overarching theme of the film not being one of action, but one of poetry in motion. The narrator of the film—who is also the Jackson impersonator—tells his audience a quietly prophetic poem that anchors the rest of the plot. “Plot” itself is a loose term in reference to this film, as there isn’t much of one, but as far as the poetic aspects go, M ​ ister Lonely delivers.

Trash Humpers (Korine, 2009) Trash Humpers ​resorts back to Korine’s raw style. Seeing as it was made on a VHS tape, the footage featured in the film is quite grainy. This, however, certainly adds to the overall effect. If the cinematography was more clear, the images and their respective contexts would not have been as striking as they are when viewed in the format it was ultimately made on. This film once again demonstrates Korine’s extremely nihilistic tendencies through his characters. While T​rash Humpers initially would seem to be about a group of anarchist elderly people, it acCourtesy of Drag City tually features a cohort of all ages. Not much happens for a great deal of the film, but some scenes are hard to handle. This was a very dark Korine film in that there was more violence and torture than in his previous works. ​Trash Humpers ​is ultimately made for a niche audience, as it’s not necessarily that interesting. Thoughts aside, the film remains an example of nostalgic Korine for diehard fans of his work.

Marfa Girl (Clark, 2012) Marfa Girl almost acts as an homage to the rest of Larry Clark’s films. Set in the namesake town of Marfa, Texas, it becomes fair to say that this seals in just how important a sense of place is to Clark. Each one of his films are not focused merely on their their characters, but also their location, which, in turn becomes a character unto itself. Marfa is the perfect location for this film, as it puts the characters into a perfect predicament. A shady border patrol officer is stalking a Mexican-American adoCourtesy of Breaking Glass Pictures lescent, who is engaging in illicit sex with a few different women. There are many secrets brewing under the surface of this film, and the location becomes an incubator for the characters and their respective experiences. One interesting aspect of ​Marfa Girl​, is that it doesn’t necessarily revolve around a girl in or from Marfa. Instead, the story deals more with the teen boy in question and the people in the town who integrate themselves into his life.

M​arfa Girl ​then becomes a parable for life itself, leading back to the idea of how we as humans are all connected.

Criticism // Capsule Reviews

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The Best of John Hughes

by Erin Gardiner

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (Hughes, 1987) A businessman and an eccentric nomad collide, almost literally, in the middle of a crowded New York City street. Their perspectives are turned upside down when they end up in each other’s company for the next few days leading up to Thanksgiving. The whirlwind plot, a mix of absurd humor and heartfelt moments, brings to mind feelings of family and nostalgia. John Candy’s portrayal of a quirky shower curtain ring salesman teases out the Courtesy of Paramount Pictures good and the goofy in everyone and Steve Martin’s performance compliments Candy’s performance through its contradictory character quirks.

There is a balance found in the two characters’ back-and-forth interactions that is inherently relatable. This film, although different from John Hughes’ iconic teen theme, is a truly enjoyable adventure.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (Hughes, 1986) The thing about John Hughes films is that most of them aren’t meant to leave you stunned and questioning the meaning of life upon finishing them. They often have relatable messages, but they are presented in a way that appeals to everyone. In this case, it’s: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” Ferris Bueller’s Day Off shows us what we all wish we could have done in high school, and the storytelling includes us in the thrill when Matthew Broderick speaks directly to the camera. The cinematography creates interesting perspectives. Watching Cameron (Alan Ruck) pace back and forth in the driveCourtesy of Paramount Pictures way from the front seat of his car makes the audience feel like another one of his friends, laughing along at his inability to decide whether he should buy into Ferris’ idea.

The same concept applies to watching from the safety of the Bueller household as Principal Rooney (Jeffrey Jones) is terrorized by the family pet. The unique storytelling choices make this film feel like a day off for the viewer as well.

Pretty in Pink (Deutch, 1986) written by John Hughes Pretty in Pink follows several people who all seem to be romantically interested in one another. It’s confusing at first—to sort out who feels what in the complicated love triangle (which is actually more of a love square).

It’s easy to find oneself annoyed at everyone, except for Andie (Molly Ringwald), who is really just trying her hardest to be herself in a world that doesn’t accept her.

James Spader establishes his role as the most chilling Courtesy of Paramount Pictures actor in Hollywood early on, despite the blow-dried pouf on his head. He’s consistently true to his character: a stuck-up rich kid named Steff. Meanwhile, Andrew McCarthy as the dreamy Blane—the apple of Andie’s eye—is sincere, but wishy-washy in his returned affection.

Jon Cryer begs sympathy for his unrequited love as Duckie, but is undoubtedly selfish about it; however, in true 80’s-teenage-fantasy fashion, everyone gets what they deserve in the end, and the audience is left to ooh and

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aah over the adorable romantic ending that somehow made us forget there was no tangible conflict resolution.

The Breakfast Club (Hughes, 1985) You’ll be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn’t seen or at the very least heard about The Breakfast Club. The reason so many people list it as the best John Hughes film ever made is because of the deep levels of humanity it presents. We love Pretty in Pink because it’s everyone’s romantic dream and Planes, Trains and Automobiles because our sides hurt from laughter at the end. But we love The Breakfast Club because we see ourselves in the characters, and their conversations act as a kind of second-hand therapy. For a story that Courtesy of Universal Studios mostly takes place in one room, one would hope for the film to excel in other areas, which it does. This movie illustrates the complexity of being human (specifically a teenage human) and the problems with the concept of trying to have a single, definable identity. On the surface, we see a princess, a basket case, a brain, a jock, and a criminal; however, when we get to know the characters, we notice that it’s much more complicated than that. The Breakfast Club is a compelling portrait about expectations, and what happens when you break them.

Home Alone (Columbus, 1990) written by John Hughes Home Alone is a decent, perhaps even great movie when allowed to stand by itself; however, it was tragically made into a series, and unfortunately, I don’t think I can talk about it without mentioning the sequels. The series as a whole struggles to hold together the original concept, and there isn’t actually much real connection between each of the five films other than their name. If you pretend that there are no sequels and just focus on the original Home Alone, you’ll find that Courtesy of 20th Century Fox there’s a lot of merit to it. While Kevin (Macaulay Culkin) experiences some wild adventures at home, his mother (Catherine O’Hara) is worrying, maybe more than she should, while she frantically tries to get back to him. Chaos is fun to watch when it’s happening to someone else, there’s no doubt about that. The parallel plots race each other while the audience guesses when they’ll finally meet up again. When standing alone, Home Alone is a nostalgic coming-of-age film. Just leave the sequels out of it.

Criticism // Capsule Reviews

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Lilja 4-Ever (Moodysson, 2002)

by Eli Hayes

Courtesy of Trust Film Sales

First things first, don’t watch this movie. Don’t watch it if you want to come out of it feeling anything remotely close to euphoric, don’t watch it for purposes of entertainment and don’t watch it in order to escape, or you’ll be sorely disappointed. Only watch Lilja 4-Ever if you’re interested in throwing yourself head first into an abyss of poverty, abuse and horror—the most horrifying thing being how relentlessly truthful its depiction of reality is. This isn’t a horror film in the sense that it will leave you frightened of what might be hiding under your bed, in your closet or just outside your door. It’s a work of paralyzing realism that, rather than relying on the insane or the supernatural to frighten viewers, simply drops them into the existence of a terribly unlucky adolescent girl in Eastern Europe who, after being abandoned by her family and all but one of her friends, regrettably resorts to prostituting herself in order to eat, in order to survive. She has nothing to sell, nowhere to live and no friends to turn to, not a possession in the world to offer in exchange for a meal or a place to sleep—aside from her body.

It must be stated though, that director and provocateur Lukas Moodysson never attempts to endorse this “lifestyle choice,” for lack of a better term. He doesn’t try to make a commentary on whether what Lilja chooses to do with her body is right or wrong. He merely depicts what he believes to be the most likely outcome of an extremely unfortunate situation. A girl

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has been deserted by her mother, mistreated and manipulated by her aunt, and thrown onto the streets of a decaying, industrialized city—in the film’s opening sequence, the location is even described as “somewhere in what once was the Soviet Union.” So what is she to do: starve and allow herself to die off? The point of analysis isn’t whether or not Lilja’s decisions are on the moral up-and-up; there simply is no point of analysis.

There is nothing to decide, nothing to judge.

Viewers are in no place to form an opinion on an unfathomable reality. Indeed, Lilja 4-Ever, with its remarkable child performances, gritty cinematographic style and undeniable authenticity, manages to transcend its status as a social commentary and become more the antithesis of what social commentaries are intended to be.

There is no directorial statement made here and Moodysson never interjects his political beliefs or personal values. He creates a fictional film that could just as easily be a documentary—a film with only one goal in mind: to replicate the hopeless nature of certain distant lives.

The film’s opening scene is jarring and disorienting in that it takes place at the end of Lilja’s journey, three months consequent to her abandonment.

Her face is bruised. She frantically runs the streets of a colorless urban environment with the intensity of Rammstein’s “Mein Herz Brennt” blasting in the background, communicating the rage and sadness that Lilja herself has been conditioned to suppress. She steps onto the ledge of a bridge overlooking a highway and

Criticism // Hidden Gems

contemplates jumping, deciding whether to break free from the cage that her life has become, only for the screen to cut to black and the title credit to appear.

From there, we are returned to an existence on the brink of chaos, hours before her mother breaks the news that she’ll be moving to America with her new boyfriend and leaving Lilja behind. Once that happens, everything begins to crumble and the non-linear structure of the narrative—the fact that, from the opening sequence, we know that she doesn’t emerge from her perils unscathed—makes bearing witness to her regression and degradation all the more difficult to endure.

Ultimately, one of the most admirable aspects of Lilja 4-Ever is the way in which it manages to depict a tragic and extraordinarily dramatic story without ever backsliding into unnecessary melodrama or exploit-

ing its protagonist. Despite the hardships that Moodysson puts his main character through, you can feel his love for her, his hope for a better world and his desire to raise awareness of the truths that are so vastly underrepresented in the media. At one point in the film, Lilja reveals to her only remaining friend, Volodja, that she shares a birthday with Britney Spears, and it forces one to ponder the trajectories of certain lives. It makes one think about the differential paths people take: the ones that individuals choose and the ones that are chosen for them. Again, this is a difficult film to recommend and, to say the least, not an easy one to watch. Delve into the dark chasm of its world not for enjoyment or as a way to kill two hours, but to learn about an obscene and terrifying corner of our planet that is rarely explored with such care and respect, let alone mentioned much at all.

New Tale of Zatoichi (Tanaka, 1963)

by Byron Bixler

For those unaware of the magic of the samurai genre, “Zatoichi” is the James Bond of Japanese Jidaigeki cinema as far as longevity goes. Spanning nearly three decades with a 26-film series as well as a popular television show and multiple remakes and rip-offs, the adventures of Zatoichi concern a blind master swordsman affectionately nicknamed “Ichi.” Working as a masseur as he travels the countryside, Zatoichi (Shintaro Katsu) is a noble protagonist—a man with good intentions and an amiable disposition who, over the course of the franchise, repeatedly finds himself drawn into conflict, usually by an obligation to defend a terrorized innocent. The audience is told very little of his past, but we come to know him very quickly by his selfless actions and his intensifying list of spoken regrets.

In the context of other samurai films, the Zatoichi series occupies a comfortable middle ground between the bloody extremes and pseudo-fantastical backdrop of Lone Wolf and Cub (1972-74), and the stiff melodrama and formal aesthetic tendencies of Hiroshi Inagaki’s Samurai Trilogy (1954-56). Of course, as one might expect from a franchise of such length, the films wavered in tone and content from somber character drama to high-camp fluff over the years.

The third entry in the series, New Tale of Zatoichi may contain a higher body count than its two predecessors, but do not be mistaken: the action is secondary.

With the vibrant opening image of a crackling fire, the Zatoichi series is thrust into the world of color for the first time. While the previous two installments’

Courtesy of The Criterion Collection

beautiful black & white cinematography is sorely missed, New Tale of Zatoichi quickly proves that the franchise hasn’t missed a beat—either on a technical or storytelling level—and also proves that the shadows distressing the heart of our protagonist are still very much present.

It’s a big step up from the first hastily conceived sequel.

After encountering a childhood friend on the road and treating him and his family to a bathhouse visit, Ichi, along with all the other customers, is robbed of what little money he has. Our hero doesn’t act in the moment to preserve the safety of those around him, but makes his move the next day, avenging the poor villagers and getting their money back from the bandits.

Following this is a trip to his old village, where he meets his old master—a stubborn and spiteful man who holds a suffocating grip on his younger sister—forcing her to marry a reasonably well-to-do man she doesn’t love. The young woman is of pure spirit and soon attaches herself to Zatoichi, quickly falling in love with him. The feelings are mutual for the blind masseur, but he’s hesitant to give himself over to them, doubting his worthiness. Tortured inside, he yearns for a calm life, free of violence. At the same time this is happening, a

Criticism // Capsule Reviews

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rival samurai, the brother of a man Zatoichi once slayed, seeks revenge, stalking him regularly and pressing for a duel that the master swordsman is reluctant to engage in.

New Tale of Zatoichi dives right back into the kind of rich morality tale territory that was seen in the first film. As such, there’s a preference for heavy drama over action and the way it plays out is beautifully tragic.

Ichi is struggling to come to terms with the pain he’s caused (directly and indirectly) and sorely wishes to escape that past by settling down with a woman who accepts him for his sins and supports him in his quest for a renewed sense of inner peace.

The act of drawing a sword becomes a bitter struggle and having the temerity to reject that urge even when faced with injustice or an enraged challenger is what Zatoichi strives for. But, he faces difficulties everywhere he goes, looked down upon by those of higher social status and angrily rebuked by his former master when his intentions of marriage are announced. The details of our troubled hero’s character are soundly

fleshed out and the strong combination of writing and performance make for a captivating character study.

Elsewhere, themes of forgiveness and selfserving greed are harshly contrasted as one character’s evolution from single-minded killer to empathetic soul is crossed with another’s increasingly devious demeanor. It all climaxes with a series of events and a final line that left me absolutely devastated.

Good deeds are not always fairly repaid, but cruelty will always find the end of a sword, and the one who holds it must live on with the bitterness of the memory, forever groping for serenity on a lonely path. Poignant lessons from what could easily have been a simplistic tale of heroic warriors and their impressive, flashing steel.

Hobo with a Shotgun (Eisener, 2011)

by Anthony Di Nizo

Courtesy of Magnolia Pictures

With a title like Hobo with a Shotgun, how can the movie be anything short of amazing? If you were to ask this, your assumptions would be correct, because it is, indeed, amazing. So amazing, in fact, that it’s worthy of an entire article explaining why it’s a must-see. I’m going to divulge as little of the plot as possible, because it’s best if you go in not knowing what to expect. And Hobo with a Shotgun is definitely filled with the unexpected.

My first encounter with this modern day masterpiece was in my sophomore year of high school. I was at a friend’s house and the three of us were looking for a movie to watch. We were searching for a film we could laugh at, not laugh with. Just a terrible piece of cinema with no artistic merit whatsoever that we could make fun of and later reference to the dismay

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of our peers. We browsed the On Demand pages until we read a title that instantly caught our eyes. A movie called Hobo with a Shotgun. We had heard of the film before and were ecstatic at the prospect of finally seeing it. So, we pressed play and the three of us were incredibly surprised and delighted by what we saw.

An aspect of my “film nerdiness” is my tendency to look into the cast, creative team and production process of a movie after seeing it. Hobo with a Shotgun was no exception. After some digging, I found that before the film was produced, a trailer—which was made for only $150—won a trailer contest to promote Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino’s upcoming double feature, Grindhouse. The trailer was so well received—in large part due to the internet—that

Criticism // Hidden Gems

it evolved into a full-length feature film made in 2011.

While I enjoy this film immensely, it is certainly not for everyone. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give it a try. It’s incredibly graphic and without giving anything away, the story follows one deplorable character (a homeless man) hunting another equally deplorable set of characters (a crime boss and his sadistic sons).

The film reflects our current culture’s obsession with violence, sex and profanity. Those three topics have always been a subject of controversy in entertainment, and it seems that every year, pop culture pushes the envelope on what it can get away with.

This engagement with unsavory material is why Hobo with a Shotgun can be seen as garbage in the eyes of the more optimistic and pure-minded. It explores a sin-ridden society that is headed straight for the gutter.

To say the imagery is ridiculous would be an understatement. It ranges from a group of topless women beating a body with baseball bats, to someone getting decapitated while hanging with their head sticking out of a custom made manhole cover; however, it’s not intended to be taken too seriously.

There’s a reason why it’s so absurd and over-the-top.

The film challenges you, to see if you can stomach these incredibly disturbing images and scenes. The sequences of brutal violence are what separate Hobo with a Shotgun from your typical Hollywood fare.

In a movie with such a low budget, small-scale and provocative subject matter, viewers come to expect cringeworthy acting to be part of the package; however, the film includes some surprisingly compelling performances. The standout is Rutger Hauer as the titular Hobo. While some of the other actors ham up their performances to the point of being cartoon characters, Hauer’s turn is completely devoid of winks and nods to the audience. The character is absolutely sincere in his actions. He’s humble, likeable and can be a total badass when he needs to be.

What makes him these things are his responses to his violent surroundings. He may be mentally unstable, but he uses violence as the last possible resort, never reaching for his shotgun, unless he is forced to do so.

Hobo with a Shotgun was a complete surprise to me. I was shocked by the amount of commentary and thought-provoking material coming out of a movie about a homeless man becoming a vigilante in a hyper-violent world. Though this movie may seem like a joke, I encourage you to watch it. There are plenty of themes and ideas to be found here and one can have a blast discussing them with friends afterwards. Hobo with a Shotgun is a perfect example of why you should not judge a movie by its title.

Courtesy of Magnolia Pictures

Criticism // Hidden Gems

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For the Love of Film At the all-too-young age of thirteen, I was confronted with the image of a young man in a bowler hat staring straight into my eyes with a knife pointed in my direction and a smirk gracing his lips. Below, the words: A Clockwork Orange.

What was this image I was gazing into? I felt my pulse rise the deeper I looked into it. Some digging around online led me to the film. When all was said and done, I felt sick to my stomach.

Next came guilt. I felt as if I had seen something nobody was meant to see.

I worried my parents would find out, and I didn’t want to know what they would do. Then came anger. How could somebody make a movie like this? What sort of warped people would let a movie like this exist? Who could possibly enjoy something so hurtful?

Then came intrigue. The images I had seen played over and over in my head like a nightmare I was trying to decode. Two days later, I stayed up late.

With my ear pressed to the floor, I listened, waiting for my dad to go to bed. I tiptoed to my door and locked it with the utmost grace. With an electric, nervous energy, I watched the movie again. A couple days later, I watched it again. As the images burned themselves into my brain, a singular thought echoed through my mind: I didn’t know movies could be like this.

For my birthday that year, I asked my mom for a DVD box set of Stanley Kubrick films. Tucked inside was the film that had forever changed my view on cinema. Movies were not just for fun anymore. They were the most challenging, brilliant and beautiful art form I could imagine. The possibilities that film offered stretched larger than any canvas, and if I had any doubts about this theory, I only needed to dig farther into my box set: 2001: A Space Odyssey, Dr. Strangelove, The Shining, Full Metal Jacket, Lolita. Time and space, light and dark, sound and color, arranged and manipulated in a way that inspired feelings from the deepest corners of my being. And I needed more.

Next came Hitchcock, Herzog, Kurosawa and Scorsese. Jodorowsky, Chaplin, Bergman and Lynch. Leone, Welles, the list is endless. I dug into each oeuvre as if I had found the fountain of knowledge. Everything I needed to know was right here; I just had to find it. It’s been eight years since I first dove in, and I’m still looking.

To me, film is simply the ultimate medium. It shapes me in ways no other kind of art can, and while its history is already vast, its future is an open book.

With just over a hundred years under its belt, film stands as one of the youngest art forms being studied today, and its true cultural and artistic impact have yet to be fully realized. Involving myself in the film community has meant involving myself in one of the great artistic movements of our time, and I cannot wait to see where the wave carries us. I eagerly await the next moment of revelation, watching the lights go up in a theater or ejecting a DVD, sitting up, taking a deep breath and thinking: I didn’t know movies could be like this. And I know it will happen… again and again.

Kevin Fermini ‘17 // Contributing Writer

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For the Love of Film

Semantics Opinion & Abstraction Courtesy of Warner Bros.

Factory Filmmaking: The Assembly Line in Today’s Hollywood

by Christian Kozlowski

Courtesy of Warner Bros.

The assembly line has been around for hundreds of years. It’s one of the most influential inventions humankind has made, providing jobs and allowing for goods to be efficiently made. Even today, almost every good is made on an assembly line, where it can be churned out to make a profit as quickly as possible. Implementing the assembly line into the moviemaking process would seem to be an incredible opportunity for movie lovers. “I mean it’s so cool, you know? So many movies could be made, and like, faster too! What could go wrong?”

If at 13 years old, I was promised that my favorite movies were to be released faster and in higher quantity, that would have totally been my response. “More pirates? More superheroes? More Star Wars? Heck yeah!”

It would be a dream come true. Not only would there be more movies to watch, but also more movie news too. As someone who grew up loving movies, the Internet was my gateway to all things cinema. I didn’t have to be in a theater or in front of a television: I could get the same thrill on a computer as I searched for new and exciting pieces of information about upcoming films.

In fact, surfing the web was just as much a part of the experience for me as actually going to see the movie.

For example, when The Dark Knight was approaching release, I devoured every bit of information I could: from the announcement of Heath Ledger’s casting as the Joker and how everyone was like,“What a terrible choice,” to when the first trailer dropped. I had so much anticipation for it, that when July 18th came, I was lined up at the theater, ready to go. I was looking forward to it so much that when I finally got to see it on opening weekend, it didn’t disappoint. It was everything I wanted and more. And good thing it was! I can’t imagine going to see The Dark Knight and being completely

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underwhelmed. To put in so much time researching after school—time I should have spent exercising and making friends—and to come out of the movie thinking it sucked? Now that would have been the worst.

Everybody came out happy: me, my dad and the folks at Warner Brothers. They got their money and I got my entertainment: a fair and even exchange within the Hollywood system. It’s an exchange that’s at the core of any commercial transaction, but in this case, the good being sold is entertainment. Their goods are packaged and sold to as many people as possible in the hopes of filling the most seats they can. Just to be clear, this was always the goal for Hollywood.

Ever since D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, Hollywood execs always had the motive of making a profit, and for the past hundred years, that’s what they’ve been doing. There were good eras for profit, and there were some troubled ones, but the goal was always the same. And that shouldn’t be surprising. After all, Hollywood is a business and that’s what businesses do.

But when businesses become lazy, that’s when consumers get angry, and I think for the past twenty years (and especially for the last five), that’s exactly what Hollywood has been doing. They’re using the assembly line mentality, and in any other business, that would be fine. The assembly line approach has always been around in the moviemaking process. Griffith made at least one movie every year for about twenty years, so it clearly isn’t anything new. But the fact that modern Hollywood remakes, franchises and builds expanded universes from beloved properties at a rapid rate makes the money-grubbing increasingly more obvious.

To understand how we got here, let’s go back to where it all started, with Steven Spielberg and George Lucas—the two fellas that ushered in the “Hollywood

Semantics // Essays

blockbusters.” Without these two, we never would’ve had the #1 movie of the year, Jurassic World, or the soon to be second #1 movie of the year, Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Spielberg and Lucas established the assembly line Hollywood runs on today. They made movies with mass appeal that didn’t just make a profit in theaters, but also tied them in with every other product imaginable. With works like Jaws, Star Wars, the Indiana Jones series, they ushered in the tightly packaged products we know today (likely unintentionally). Like all filmmakers, Spielberg and Lucas just wanted to make the best movie they could make. It just so happened that the movies they wanted to make appealed to the majority of moviegoers, and Hollywood took note of this.

After a string of financial failures in the late 70’s concluding with Michael Cimino’s low-concept, high-budgeted Heaven’s Gate, Hollywood studios backed away from the auteur-driven films of the era and went towards what had worked in Spielberg and Lucas’ movies. From there, the models of their work were put on the assembly line.

In my opinion, this assembly line peaked with The Dark Knight, and the quality has been slowly declining ever since. What I mean is: The Dark Knight was the last huge tentpole where I didn’t feel like it was a part of an assembly line in any way. Maybe it’s a generation thing, but The Dark Knight was my Jaws. It had that same zeitgeist in 2008 that I assume Jaws had in 1975. It was a movie in which a filmmaker had a vision, and that vision could be shown with over $200 million backing it up. I’d never seen something like that before. The story, the characters, the action; it all felt completely thought out on a grand scale. Growing up, out of all the memories I’ve had in movie theaters, watching The Dark Knight is the clearest. Sitting with my dad in the back row, I was completely transfixed in the world of Batman for two and a half hours. Exiting the theater, I was just as excited as when I walked in. Even at the age of 13, I felt that.

Maybe it’s an age thing, or maybe it’s because I have become a jaded film student, but I don’t think I’ll ever have an experience with a big budget franchise movie like The Dark Knight again. Sure, there have been good blockbusters since. Marvel Studios is definitely doing more good than bad, but I see Marvel as the point of no return. With Marvel Studios running a smooth, financially successful assembly line, competition is beginning to crowd the field. The Hollywood universe is big, but it’s not big enough to support all the tentpoles. There’s only 365 days in a year, and only a handful of them are prime movie release dates. Studios are jumping on dates like hotcakes.

Now if you made it this far, you might think my motives for this piece is to bash the Hollywood system, but they’re not. I don’t necessarily hate Hollywood: I’m more frustrated than anything. I’m frustrated with the way things have become ever since The Dark Knight released. I remember when the movie first came out, I read somewhere that Christopher Nolan never thought about a sequel when mak-

ing the film. He simply gave all his attention to the task of making the best movie possible. You would think that Hollywood might take this into consideration with tentpole movies moving forward, but if anything, they went in the complete opposite direction.

Honestly, you can’t really blame them, though. When consumers devour your products, spend hours online searching for new information on them, willingly camp out until your product is released, how else can Hollywood keep up? The assembly line is here to stay because Hollywood needs it, due to the impossible demands fans have made. This is the best Hollywood can do in today’s pop culture.

One of the best tentpole movie experiences I’ve had in a long time was seeing Mad Max: Fury Road. It actually conjured some memories of my first time seeing The Dark Knight. The reason? The new Mad Max didn’t feel like it was apart of any assembly line. Warner Brothers didn’t go to George Miller and ask him to make a new Mad Max—there wasn’t a huge demand for it. It was something Miller wanted to make because he felt he had to, and that resulted in the best movie I saw this summer (and possibly the best I saw this whole year).

And the most encouraging thing I read online about it?

The fact that there’s no permanent plan for a fifth Mad Max yet. There’s talk of a new trilogy, but at least there aren’t five new movies lined up for the next five years.

As I mentioned earlier, the second #1 movie of the year will soon arrive. And as we all—with our huge expectations—anxiously count the days till it’s here, let’s hope Disney got it right, cause if not… well, at least we get another chance in 2016 with Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, and if that doesn’t work, then maybe Episode VIII in 2017 will be great. And if, by chance, that isn’t all that, then maybe the Han Solo spin-off will be the ticket on May 25, 2018. And if that just doesn’t satisfy, then Episode IX in 2019 will be the one. Oh and there’s also that Boba Fett movie coming out at some point…

Semantics // Essays

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The Lonely Lad and the Lively Lady Mikayla Mislak

I. The boy with shadows on his cheeks slides into the mahogany room. Morose in every sense of the word. He eagerly slides knives into his wrists, guns to his temple, nooses around his neck, and flames to his flesh. Never to die but never to be heard. He is the lonely one, stalking hearses and black veils. Gaunt, pale, and voiceless.

II. The woman with light swirling through her braids and sun warming her wrinkles. She is no stranger to the numbers tattooed on her arm, but she lives and laughs and fights. Saving trees and stealing cars, giving him a reason to love for the first time. She crackles with spirit and remembers the nonpermanent body.

III. The boy stands above the sea a week older and years wiser.

His shadowy veil sits behind him. His face, body, and soul now made lighter as he lingers not at his last brush with destruction. He plucks strings to reminiscence on her song.

Inspired by Hal Ashby’s Harold and Maude

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Semantics // Creative Lit

Don’t Let Her In Paige Conley

She can’t be your friend.

It’s just the way it is.

She’s not a girl.

She’s not your salvation.

She’s nothing.

Her feet aren’t cold because her heart is.

Her lips are red because his flesh was.

Her love is not lasting because her age is everlasting.

It’s just the way it is.

Every question is answered in another question.

Every explanation is that there is no explanation.

Don’t kill yourself over kidding yourself, we’re all killers.

Draw the blinds, invite her in, But don’t let her underneath your skin.

I was once the fair skinned boy.

I was once her friend.

Believe me when I say she’s only the beginning to your end.

She killed for me.

I killed for her.

Now, I kill myself, While they kill you, So she will kill them, and then you’ll kill for her too.

Just like he killed before me, As I killed before you.

Don’t kill yourself, Over kidding yourself, We’re all killers.

He told me, What I say to you.

We’re all killers, But she’s the only one with an excuse.

Don’t let her in, Or She’ll bring the killer out of you.

She can’t be your friend.

It’s just the way it is.

Her love is not lasting because her age is everlasting.

You can’t be her friend.

You can’t let her in.

Inspired by Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One In

Semantics // Creative Lit

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For the Love of Film

Music was my first love.

This is probably blasphemous to say in a magazine about films, in a piece entitled “For the Love of Film.” But I’m going to say something crazy here, and please hear me out: Music and cinema are one in the same, largely because of the connecting thread of rhythm.

The concept of film as rhythm didn’t hit me full blast until I first viewed Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive, a film so attached to its soundtrack that it often plays as a glorious retro-electro music video. But my first taste of truly understanding how film could be rhythmic, in both a musical and nonmusical fashion, came from a viewing of both volumes of Kill Bill with my father. General complaints about the work of Quentin Tarantino aside, both films play with rhythm beautifully, and utilize editing in a fashion that weaves in and out of different temporal spaces, with a variety of colors and styles of cinematography. Not to mention the score, by RZA of Wu-Tang Clan, played upon its own musical rhythms and blended with the visual rhythm as well. It became a visual orchestra, and suddenly the art of cinema made sense to me.

Despite this, I still don’t watch enough films. Every year, it becomes another failed New Year’s resolution: “Watch More Films,” or “Watch a Film Everyday,” or “Just do it, seriously it’s not that hard to watch movies, man.” I always fail, without question, as the strain of life rarely lets me have two uninterrupted hours to enjoy the cinematic world, and I have unfortunately caught a pretentious bug that makes watching cinema on a television screen feel unholy to me. But not taking in enough cinema is a terrifying notion to someone who wishes to spend the rest of his life writing about, creating, and breathing this stuff.

But alas, a friend of mine, a collaborator, told me recently that on each of his films, he uses a metronome as he writes to determine the pace of the film in his head. He composes his images like a song, the tempo and rhythm planned well in advance. Meanwhile, Winding Refn has said that his films are more influenced by music than they are by other films. Both of these revelations have helped me rid myself of the guilt I feel when I choose to listen to Funkadelic’s “Maggot Brain” rather than watch Seven Samurai (I swear I will get to it. I have the Criterion Collection Blu-ray, but goddamn, if it isn’t intimidating to set aside three and a half hours). But to me, that is all cinema is. A composition where, rather than instruments, we have colors, motions and movements, and visual crescendos and flurries of cuts that weave in and out of a soundtrack, creating the oxymoronic beautiful cacophonous mixture. Cinema is sight; cinema is sound, and when both are used correctly together, cinema is the most powerful medium of communication.

Casey Simonson ‘16 // Contributing Writer

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For the Love of Film

Magazine Staff Contributors

Justin Bertolero

Byron Bixler

Sam Braverman

Ryan Ciecwisz

Paige Conley

Anthony Di Nizo

Kris DiNardi

Elizabeth Esten

Kevin Fermini

Erin Gardiner

Haley Goetz

Austin Gold

Eli Hayes

Kayla Hurowitz

Joel Kalow

Christian Kozlowski

John Lunden

Justin Madore

Mikayla Mislak

Erica Noboa

Gabriella Pakeman

Courtney Ravelo

Casey Simonson

Jacob Sullivan

Head Editor Byron Bixler Copy Editor Kris DiNardi Lead Layout Bridget A. Williamson Graphics Design Elijah Potts Artwork Kristen Chung Kristen Karaliunas Cover Image Elijah Potts

Organization Officers President Vice President Secretary Treasurer

Byron Bixler Robert S. Hummel Eli Hayes Allison Ditzig

Academic Advisor Professor Joshua Bonnetta

Staff

www.filmicmag.com

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