Majid Majidi’s Children of Heaven (1992)

What’s that stuff that goes in when you’ve got nothing left to say? You know, those couple extra sentences that push your paper just into the range of acceptable length, the triple playback of that spectacular inferno that our hero has barely removed himself from, and in the nick of time too. Such redundancy could possibly be termed as supplementary; it serves only to reiterate a point. Or perhaps it serves only as fluff.

One would think that plot that revolves around a pair of missing shoes would need a whole lot of fluff – say eighty minutes worth. It seems too simple to carry through and too minor to offer any significance, but the Iranian Children of Heaven’s director and screenwriter Majid Majidi exposes an entire existence that emerges from this seemingly innocuous story-line, and not once does it feel as though the plot is stretched too thin. He takes a precedent evocative of a Pixar short and weaves it into a strangely believable story about how things should be. A child’s naïve conceptions about what it takes to be happy – a piece of candy, soap bubbles, a pair of brand new, pink leather shoes – are infinitely more satisfying that the complex goals an older individual sets for his self. Yes, I’ll be the first to admit that Children of Heaven is a movie that is foremost about the replacement of a young girl’s shoes, but it presents so much more than that. Maybe sometimes you have to believe that something can be simple and meaningful.

That simplicity is something that doesn’t quite work in Hollywood anymore. It’s odd that great special effects, carefully orchestrated action scenes, and convincing stuntmen are what it takes to make a movie “realistic.” I know that I’m guilty of the attraction. Watching Amir Farrokh Hashemian’s (Ali) face, however, as he tells his sister the bad news, seeing the tears spill over onto their cheeks, that is about as sincere as it gets. It’s somewhat disappointing that we have to turn to foreign films for a “real” experience, but completely understandable. I, for one, cringe when I imagine a younger Dakota Fanning standing in Bahare Seddiqi’s (Zahra) place.

Frankly, I’d be surprised if the foreignness of the film wasn’t half the draw. It’s so rare to see something different, so completely alien that we hesitate to make connections. It’s a strange structure of familiarity and disconnect that Majidi has wrought for a non-Iranian audience. We’re not strangers to keeping secrets to avert ourselves from a parent’s rightful anger, so Ali’s shame resonates with us. At the same time, the very relationship between the children and their elders is so different from what we identify with. Watch Ali’s hesitance in pressing his teacher for the chance to race; if he wasn’t desperate, you can tell he would not dare to make those demands. But even though we don’t go for the “speak only when spoken to” rules of old, it is so easy to slip into Ali’s mind frame and congratulate him on a conquest that does not exist in our culture (to the same degree, at least).

Actually, the thing that gets to me about foreign films is that the cultural connotations and innuendos all go over a stranger’s proverbial head. In Children of Heaven you get so completely inside Ali’s head that you understand his motives and the context of his struggles without ever being condescended with an explanation. The story and the message are always very clear: hey, the first time I saw it was without subtitles.

So watch closely because everything you need to know is right on the screen.

Arshia Sandozi
Guest commentator

John Dahl’s Red Rock West (1992)

Neo-noir, modern films (since 1981) that use the techniques of film noir, can be defined very simply, by analogy. Let’s say you’re working on a piece of art. You throw some mud at a fan, splattering brown gobs all over your walls. You rev the fan (it’s industrial sized) to 30,000 rpm and empty a can of blue paint mixed with honey in front of it. Instantly, everything in the room is mottled with the sticky blue substance punctuated by your brown blobs. Now comes the beauty part: you release 100,000 ants into the room, install a video camera and leave, locking the door. Inside, your three-dimensional Jackson Pollack-esque installation seems to move, to creep, to change second by second, as the ants crawl all over, seeking honey. You call your work “Living in a Factory” and ask the government for a grant to do more. Critics come. They dub your style: Bio-Modernism. You are famous.

When you were doing it, though, you didn’t know it was Bio-Modernism. You thought you were just flinging mud and paint and honey at the walls and freeing the denizens of your friends’ ant farms. But now you’re famous and critics are defining you, your work, and other artists whose work is like yours. There’s the guy, for instance, who built a replica of the interior of a store, all the shelves painted the same color red, filled it with white dishes, and let a bull go inside, smashing stuff. He calls it, unoriginally, “Bull in a China Shop.” Bio-Modernism is all the rage.

Time passes. Bio-Modernism and its unveiled comment on the conflict between the human and natural worlds (with the added ironic comment that this contretemps will be viewed on video) cease to interest the art-lover. Something called Primitive Formalism takes its place, only to be replaced later by Ironic Realism, then Chewed Art.

Then, one day, someone rediscovers your work, its use of constructed living spaces, and fundamental art media, and animals. Using your theories, the ones you didn’t know you had until some critics pointed it out for you, they adapt Bio-Modernism to their own narratives. They keep the randomness, the blobs, the animals, but they apply these traits, intentionally, as embellishments to their own commentary on a world they see freeing itself from the laws of gravity and bioethics. One artist suspends three elephants from the top of the dome in the capitol building in St. Paul, Minnesota, while three Tibetan monks circle below them, chanting for peace. The work is called “The Pit and the Pendulum.” The critics, ever the reductionists, are more impressed with the new artists use of the earlier theory than the new ideas it enhances. They dub the new stuff Neo-Bio-Modernism.

Et voilà! Now you understand how we get to Neo-noir film. Essentially, it’s films like John Dahl’s Red Rock West, which features an intinerant oil worker (Nicolas Cage), out of work, sucked into a corrupt little Wyoming town and an even dirtier relationship between a husband (J. T. Walsh) who’s trying to kill his wife (Lara Flynn Boyle) and the wife who’s not all that she appears. So why isn’t this just film noir, like Double Indemnity or Out of the Past or Touch of Evil is film noir?

Because those films weren’t part of a genre; they included a mood, a mood that reflected the dissatisfaction, alienation, psychological disorientation, and moral relativism that pervaded American during and after World War II. That mood seemed to dissipate after 1959 (although in some ways it was replaced by much darker things). You can’t come back in 1981 (Lawrence Kasdan’s Body Heat), and just make a film noir. Your awareness of it as a style, the different time in which you make your film, the evolved culture that the film reflects, all mean that you can imitate or adapt the style, but you are creating something new: Neo-noir. At minimum you are making an homage to an older film style, sure. But more significantly you’re making a film that both comments on its own time by associating it with the past and comments on the style itself.

Watching Dahl’s Red Rock West, you’ll recognize a lot of elements from Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity or John Farrow’s His Kind of Woman. A femme fatale. A man whose moral compass is just a bit bent by difficult circumstances. Light streaming through slats. A lot of action at night. A sense of corruption. An urban-ness despite the rural setting. But this is still a very modern film. There is something new about it, something that separates it clearly from the original film noir movies. You have to figure out what it is.

Or, to paraphrase a man named Morbius: I can only show you the door marked “Neo”: you have to walk through it.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot (1959)

Before we begin looking at a specific aspect of this film, notice that like our last film, Double Indemnity (1944), Some Like It Hot (1959) is directed by Billy Wilder. Now, the two films are vastly different – one’s a dark, cynical noirist drama, one’s a comedy; one’s a product of the war years, one’s from the boom era after the war; one tweaks our moral sense although good triumphs over evil in the end, one seems to conform to our moral sense although the end is humorously ambiguous – but it is worth asking yourself, what qualities does the director bring to both movies?

Billy Wilder is one of America’s greatest directors (he would win a Best Picture, Best Director and Best Writer/ Screenplay award for The Apartment in 1960). What, as you reflect on two of his better films, are his identifying traits? What makes him a good director? What kind of story does he like to tell? How does he tell it differently than another director might? Let us know what you come up with.

That said (or asked), let’s take a moment to look at what’s at the heart of this comedy – cross-dressing. Drag. Guys dressed up as women. In this case, Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis, on the run from the mob after witnessing the St. Valentine’s Day massacre, dressed up as 1920s flappers in order to pass themselves off as musicians in an all-girl band. Quick, make a list of the films in which this gimmick provides the centerpiece of the plot. Okay. Pencils down. How many of you had: Tootsie, Mrs. Doubtfire, Big Mama’s House, White Chicks, Nuns on the Run, I Was a Male War Bride? (Give yourself extra credit if you got more.) The question here is: why is this so funny?

First, a simple answer: Guys look hilarious when they’re dressed up as women. If you look closely, you’ll realize it’s never the point to make them completely feminine. Often the opposite is true. They stumble around on high heels. They walk like men. They struggle keeping their voices from being “manly.” They’re forced to adjust their bras, and girdles, and hosiery at inopportune times. Quickly we’ve descended into the comic irony – by watching men dressed as women we’re celebrating how NOT-women they are.

Which leads us to an even bigger irony. The men-in-drag technique is a particularly enjoyable form of dramatic irony. We know those guys are men, but many of the onscreen characters don’t. Consequently we hear the men’s lines two ways – the way the other characters do (a “female voice”) and the way we know it really is (the “male voice”). In Some Like It Hot, both Lemmon and Curtis try to find ways to insinuate themselves with Marilyn Monroe. So we combine this dual voicing with a lot of sexual innuendo, both ironic and otherwise, and the result is pretty comic.

One of the more interesting paradoxes of men in drag is whether it reinforces typical gender roles (men should be men, and if they try not to be they look silly and are funny) or blows them up (cross-dressing men appeals to some inner sense of desire we have, and we only drape it in comic styling to shield ourselves from our non-conformist ideas). You work it out. In the meantime, enjoy Some Like It Hot, one of Hollywood’s classic comedies.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (1944)

So, what the heck is feelm no-wahr, anyway? Tonight’s screening of Double Indemnity inaugurates our year long introduction to both classic and neo- noir. We’ll be showing seven films, and you get to decide what the heck noir really is. Until then, here’s a brief discussion of the matter.

First, the term film noir is French for “black film,” which is kind of ironic because in many ways film noir is a unique American style. Second, film noir isn’t really a genre of film, like westerns or romantic comedies or action flicks; rather, it’s a mood, a style, applied to a variety of film types. But even this is a bit misleading because it suggests that the classic films we now describe as examples of noir, films like The Maltese Falcon, Shadow of a Doubt, The Postman Always Rings Twice, Gun Crazy, Out of the Past, The Big Clock, The Set-Up, D.O.A., Asphalt Jungle, and Touch of Evil, were made by people who knew they were making noirist films. And they didn’t. The term itself didn’t even come around until 1946, and while some critics date the advent of the style from the end of WWII, others see it beginning as early as 1927.

Instead, these filmmakers simply captured a mood, a feeling that was in the air. It’s an urban feeling, a paranoid feeling, a feeling that everything has gone to hell, no one’s on the level, and everyone is guilty. It’s a world of moral ambiguity, and according to film archivist Hayden Guest, the hero, if one exists, “is not necessarily grounded in any sense of right or wrong.”

There’s also a look to film noir, and you’ll see it in Double Indemnity. Darkness, filtered light sliding through blinds, creating odd angles of light and dark across rooms and characters, trenchcoats, cigarettes, rain slickened streets. Really, though, the best way to get to know and to enjoy this particular style of film is to watch some. When we get to neo-noir, noirist films made after 1979, we’ll see the style make a serious comeback until we can almost find elements in every movie currently coming out of Hollywood, if not other countries. (The current cinema of South Korea, stuff like Oldboy and Shiri, is seriously noirist.)

In the meantime, you’re sitting in front of Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (from a novel by edgy crime writer James M. Cain and a screenplay by hardboiled fiction writer Raymond Chandler) with Fred MacMurray and Barabara Stanwyck. Stanwyck is the classic femme fatale (“dangerous woman”), another frequent convention of noir. Watch her twist MacMurray’s character around, until he has agreed to help her murder her husband.

In the end, and we won’t give it away here, MacMurray’s character Walter Neff, is a great example of crime writer James Ellroy’s definition of film noir: “A righteous, generically American film movement that went from 1945 to 1958, and exposited one great theme and that theme is: you’re f---ed.”

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s The Lives of Others (2006)

Normally, we talk about the evening’s screening in this space. But because SPA’s German class is going to have a few words tonight about topics related to Herr von Donnersmarck’s film, we thought we’d take a moment to discuss this evening’s animated offering: Wolfgang and Christoph Lauenstein’s “Balance.”

We choose animated shorts for a number of reasons. One is to offer an entertaining intro to the scheduled movie while providing students a few extra minutes to get to the movie before it starts. We also try to find short pieces that are, in some way, related to the feature film. And so we introduce Das Leben der Anderen (The Lives of Others), about an East German secret service agent who becomes intrigued by the lives of a couple he is assigned to observe, with a stop-action puppet animation about five men on a platform in space trying to maintain their balance when one of them pulls a heavy box onto the platform.

What’s the connection, other than the fact that both works are German? You might want to consider the effect that an oppressive system has on the individual as one theme. In “Balance,” the five men have organized themselves into a highly efficient society. (The fact that it is the product of oppression is suggested by the numbers each man wears on the back of his coat and by the pervasive grayness of the film’s palette.) Yet the arrival of the box, a red box that plays faint music, disrupts not only the balance of the platform but the balance of their culture. They go from working together to working against one another.

Das Leben der Anderen, which takes place before the fall of the Berlin Wall, also reflects a society that is, in one sense, highly ordered. A powerful government. An efficient information collection system. People who know their roles. Yet it is all disrupted by a single human emotion. In “Balance,” that emotion is greed; in Das Leben der Anderen it is, perhaps, love. Now that’s an interesting concept – the emotions that make us most human are also the things that will disrupt our attempts to form efficient systems. When the system being disrupted is an oppressive one – and one doesn’t get much more oppressive than the Cold War visions reflected in these two films – we seem to be celebrating the triumph the human spirit. We suspect, however, that even a benignly efficient system is vulnerable, a message that Gene Roddenberry drove home repeatedly every time Captain James T. Kirk dismantled a utopian society in the old Star Trek series.

But gosh, you’re saying, this is just an animated short. In fact it’s just a short piece meant to illustrate a particularly intense irony. After all, the balance depicted at the end of the film is radically different from that suggested at the beginning. How do we end up thinking about all this deep Cold War and culture stuff? Easy. “Balance” is designed to encourage us to think below its surface story. It has no dialogue, so we must interpret its action without intervention from onscreen explanations. It takes place in a hypothetical universe where the rules are metaphorical – to survive, the men must maintain the balance of their platform (one could even read that as an environmental message, no?). And the Lauensteins load the brief minutes of their piece with key visual images. The box, for example, is red, while everything else is gray. Does the red suggest anger? Is it anger that destroys their world? Does the red suggest life, passion, love? The viewer must interpret, or translate, the images. And in doing so, we construct a meaning.

“Balance” is a beautiful film, perfectly balanced in its storytelling and imagery. We hope it encourages you to think a bit, and that you’ll draw some connections between its story and the feature film. And we ask the same of every animated short we show, even if it’s “Iddy Biddy Beat Boy” or “Officer Pooch.”

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Martin Campbell’s Casino Royale (2006)

James Bond is part of our modern mythology. Part superhero, part id, Bond has chronicled our wish fulfillment fantasies since Ian Fleming’s first Bond novel appeared in 1953 -- fast cars, faster women, high-tech gadgets, encyclopedic knowledge, the defeat of evil in the face of insurmountable odds, grace, and wit.

Through the movies starring Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan, and now Daniel Craig, the Bond film has developed such a recognizable formula and traits that even people who haven’t seen the films know the details, that he likes his martinis “shaken, not stirred,” that he introduces himself by saying “Bond, James Bond,” that double-0 means he has a “license to kill,” that he must travel to at least three exotic locales in order to complete his mission, that each movie has a scene in which he gets new weapons (from a guy named Q) which will come in handy before the final scene, that “Bond villains” and “Bond girls” (both “good” and “bad,” and there’s always one of each) are specific character genres. Maybe one reason we love Bond is because each new adventure brings us more of the same.

Yet Bond is also a chameleon. Perhaps each decade gets a Bond that reflects it – a sexist, cold war Bond in the 60s, a “what, me worry?” leisure-suited Bond in the 70s, a multi-media Bond in the 90s. Fittingly, Casino Royale (2006) gives us an entirely new Bond placed back at square one of the Bond chronology. And that is what we recommend you pay attention to in this film – how Casino Royale can reject much of the Bond formula while still paying homage to it. Daniel Craig’s Bond, for example, is as unflappable as any of his predecessors, but he also bleeds and suffers more than any previous Bond. Likewise, Craig’s Bond is as much a womanizer as those who went before, but he also gets seriously monogamous in this film. This latter adjustment lends the film a much needed romantic facet, not seen since Lazenby in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service although other Bonds pretended at times to less blatant wolfish behavior. While the espionage and action exploits make him superhuman, the romance makes him human, someone you can really care about. And face it, as much as you may have liked Brosnan or even Connery, did you really care about their Bonds? Craig’s Bond sustains a lot of visible physical wounds (for maybe the first time since Sean Connery), but he also sustains clear psychic wounds. That kind of vulnerability is rare in a film Bond.

What Casino Royale also does well is ask (and answer) the question: who is James Bond? Enjoy the enigmatic nature of his ingenuity. People in this film are surprised that he is capable of thinking. They think of him as a “blunt instrument,” and he certainly acts like he is one. But the movie is full of sly, how-did-he-do-that moments.

Confession time: I love Bond. My favorite is Sean Connery. And I think Goldfinger is the peak of the Bond films. Casino Royale opened my eyes to a new Bond, one I like a lot. This film is a keeper, not just in the Bond pantheon, but on any shelf of best action films.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Sidney Lumet’s Network (1976)

"I am mad as hell and I’m not going take it anymore!” With these twelve words, screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky engraved his name in film history. Network is one of the most potent criticisms of the media and continues to be, even thirty years later. Directed by Sidney Lumet (Dog Day Afternoon, 12 Angry Men) in 1976, the film brilliantly explores the dark side of corporate media through the brilliant performances by Peter Finch, William Holden, Beatrice Straight, Robert Duvall, Faye Dunaway, and Ned Beatty.

Howard Beale (Finch) is the news anchor for the poorly rated UBS station. After learning he is going to be fired, Beale announces on air that he will commit suicide a week later. Although at first the company is outraged, enter entertainment head Diana Christensen (Dunaway), who sees Beale’s insanity not as a problem, but as an entertainment grab. As news head Max Schumacher (Holden) fights against Diana’s idea, he is subsequently removed from his post.

But at the center of all this is the lunatic Beale. Beale continues to go on air, ranting numerous times about the tumultuous events that seem to be creating fear around the country. Then, in one news program, he tells people to announce their anger to the world (thus the famous quote), and Christensen locks on to his power, creating the true spectacle of the show. What I find interesting is how audiences react to Beale. Beale shouts important rants on how we can deal with the problems of the world. He is giving the answers. But do people listen? No, they simply go on watching the show and eating their dinners.

Somehow, Network predicted how the world of television would shape the next thirty years. Chayefsky seemed to be the real “mad prophet of the airwaves.” He knew exactly how television worked back then and how we seem to follow the same patterns today. We still care only for ratings. News programs still focus on getting ratings through entertainment instead of quality journalism.

At the same time as Beale is giving his prophetic speeches, Diana begins an affair with Max. She seems to live life on the dangerous side all the time, as seen by her idea for a reality show following the lives a terrorist group (obviously inspired by the American terrorist group, the Symbionese Liberation Army). It seems over the top, but it doesn’t seem unreasonable in today’s strange world of news.

The power of performance is something Network seems to master. Two performances in particular achieved so much in so little time. Beatrice Straight only appears on screen for five minutes as Max’s wife. But her conviction as a woman hurt, but not surprised, by her husband’s affair is so convincing, so real, that it works (Straight’s Oscar win is the shortest screen time win of all time). Then there’s Ned Beatty as the executive of UBS who delivers a powerful monologue: “There is only IBM, and ITT, and AT&T, and DuPont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today,” he shouts at Beale.

Though most people reference Finch’s performance (who won the Oscar posthumously) as the standout, Holden’s for me remains the more subtle and actually more curious performance. Holden remains a moral conscience for us, but at the same time he is no better than others. Though he cares about Beale and real journalism, his engagement in the affair shows his vulnerability. When Max finally realizes he’s wrong, he gives a great monologue that shows his conviction to the world of TV. “And it's a happy ending: Wayward husband comes to his senses, returns to his wife, with whom he has established a long and sustaining love. Heartless young woman left alone in her arctic desolation. Music up with a swell; final commercial. And here are a few scenes from next week's show.”

Like any good TV show, as Diana would suggest, Network ends in a murder. It’s not a surprise though; we see the executives openly, and cynically, discuss how they can end the Beale show to save the ratings. The decision is made that Beale will be assassinated for the new terrorist reality show. What I find so fascinating about this scene is the complete lack of morality. Only at one point does one member suggest what they are doing is capital punishment. The world of Network is one without morals. It is simply about what we can do to increase ratings. It is the world we live in today, where capitalism undermines our moral conscience.

Network is a direct attack on corporate media. Somehow, despite its strong message delivered through powerful performances, people fail to listen. And what has happened to our news media? It has only gotten worse. Sometimes films can make a difference. Sometimes it will try and right a wrong. Unfortunately, no one has listened and TV continued to dominate. But as long as people continually see Network, there’s hope. And as long as someone is mad as hell, and not going to take it anymore, there’s a chance for change.

Peter Labuza
Film Club Co-President

Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1983)

It’s a simple question: What makes us human? At this point, you could have about fifty different answers: our physical structure; our ability to rationalize, to think, to have memories, to feel emotions, to dream, to hope. To love. But in the end, your ability to believe you are human could simply be a conscious dream. There is nothing you can truly do to prove to yourself that you are more than possibly a machine. Blade Runner asks us this question: How can we know we are truly human?

Directed by Ridley Scott (Alien, Gladiator) and adapted from the famous novel by Phillip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Blade Runner is possibly the greatest science fiction film ever put to screen. It is visually stunning, creating a bleak, dystopic vision of Los Angeles in 2019. It is a hybrid of genres, taking a science fiction story and forming itself as a film noir. It constantly uses visual cues, brilliant monologues, and a wonderful storyline to ask us to explore our humanity. And it is also the film that defined the importance of the director’s cut. Originally released in 1982 to mundane applause, Ridley Scott made his intended version of the film in 1992, away from Hollywood’s grasp, making Blade Runner into a cult classic.

The film begins with a title card telling us of our bleak future. It is 2019, and for years a giant corporation has been producing replicants, androids that are identical or greater in every single way to humans, including intelligence and physical capabilities. Used mainly for slave labor on off-world planets, replicants finally realized their own capabilities and began a mutiny. They were finally banned on Earth and “retired” by an elite group of police called blade runners. Rick Deckard, played by Harrison Ford (Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark), used to be one of these blade runners. Deckard’s adventure begins as five replicants come to Los Angeles, hoping to find a way to cure death, as replicants have an expiration date. Deckard, recovering from his divorce, is put back on the force with the task of hunting these men down, while closely being watched by a man named Gaff. The world is dark and grim, but Deckard seems to be unmoved by this, simply hoping to get his job done.

The vision of the future that Scott has set is breathtaking. The world is covered with lights and pollution, not a utopia as other directors have imagined. If Star Wars was the first to show an unclean future, Blade Runner took it to the extreme. Though some areas may be pristine perfect, other areas show Los Angeles as a dilapidated hole, not renovated in years. Scott also comments on the integration of Japanese culture into the United States. In the film, a majority of the population appears to be Japanese and most advertisements feature Japanese. In the 1980s, it was largely believed that Japan would overtake the United States in economic power, a belief still held today by many, and Blade Runner shows that fear and anxiety well.

Blade Runner also plays with the ideas between science fiction and film noir. Many influences of both classics like The Maltese Falcon or neo noir like Chinatown can be seen in this film. It is full of dark and shady visuals. We follow the film from a single protagonist (who in the original cut has a narration) that had a shady moral outlook. There is a femme fatale. The score is a mix of futuristic tones and jazz, as created by the famous Vangelis. And finally there is the question of corruption, seen by almost every person that dominates this screen.

Speaking of film noir and more specifically, femme fatales, the character of Rachael (Sean Young) is one that haunts my mind. While visiting the replicant corporation, the head introduces Rachael to Deckard as his secretary, but she is actually a replicant who doesn’t know her identity as one. Implanted with the memories of the boss’s niece, Rachael has no idea that her life is simply a machine. Which brings me to the major philosophy of this film. If Rachael, a woman who can love, emote, and have memories among other qualities, does not know she is simply a machine, how can we know what we are not? How can we perceive our reality as a human to be actually real?

Eyes play a major role in this film as a symbol for perception. The opening sequence is an eye reflected upon the city. People’s eyes light up. This is important for Scott’s film, because this is the medium in which we perceive our own reality. Our brain is designed to think that if we can see it, it is probably real. But in Blade Runner, we perceive Rachael originally to be real. Our eyes can deceive us, just as any body part of us can. We can only trust in the soul.

But the question that remains incontrovertible to the entire film is the reality of our main protagonist. Unlike most directors’ cuts, Scott only changed three small parts to his film. First he removed the narration the producers demanded he put in. Second, he removed the happy ending footage of Deckard and Rachael driving into the sun (which was actually extra footage from The Shining). And finally, he added a small scene where Deckard dreams about a unicorn. The importance of this dream can be seen at the end, when Gaff leaves a small origami of a unicorn outside his apartment. Gaff throughout the film leaves small origami figures like the unicorn to toy with Deckard’s emotions, but the unicorn proves that Gaff knows about his dream of the unicorn. And if Gaff knows without ever telling him, then his dreams may have all been implanted. Thus, the ultimate question of this film is: Could Deckard by a replicant?

It is a shocking revelation to think about it, but it makes complete sense if Deckard was simply created as a replicant to hunt other replicants. If film noirs are all about untrustworthy narrators, what is more perfect than a narrator who doesn’t know he isn’t human? But what does this mean for us as an audience? It’s a shock to think about Rachael’s existence but if our main character, a man we have come to trust for the last two hours, was nothing but another corporate machine sent to do a human’s job, how can we trust our own reality? What makes us human? What separates man from machine?

The other major intellectual fight is the one for immortality. Our antagonist for the picture is Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), the leader and wisest of the replicants. Roy wants nothing more than to stop the expiration date he is designed with. It is this fight for survival, for human existence, for preserving one’s memories that remain the emotional heart of this film. The final monologue by Roy is one that amazes me every time: “I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.” I find Batty to be the most complex character, and maybe the most well developed antagonist in any film I have ever seen.

Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner is an epic and philosophical science fiction masterpiece that will probably never be equaled. This is a film that I find perplexing every single time, and makes me wish I could somehow assert my humanity to the world. But as Scott suggests, it is impossible to assert our own humanity. There is no way we can ever know we are truly human. But this is not just a philosophical film, Scott has used visuals, motifs, and a film noir story to adapted to his theories on life, death, and meaning. Blade Runner is one of those few films that will be etched into your mind for years to come, a masterpiece of the highest magnitude, responding to the mind through entertainment, visual appeal, and philosophical terms.

Peter Labuza
Film Club Co-President

Michael Radford’s The Merchant of Venice (2004)

Why did we pick this film? Easy answer: William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice is part of the freshman curriculum this year. So we picked this film in order to give Shakespeare readers a chance to see a complete produced version of the play, one that takes advantage of the familiar medium of film, one that will complement the staged production currently offered at the Guthrie Theater, one that will enhance the readers’ understanding of Shakespeare’s language. You’re welcome.

More complex answer: Shakespeare on film offers us a unique opportunity to examine the art of film, and Radford’s version of Merchant puts the medium in strong relief. Shakespeare, as you know, wrote for the stage. And the stage is an imagined space. Sitting and watching a stage production of The Wizard of Oz, you don’t expect to see a real tornado on stage; you see things that suggest a tornado is happening and you accept it. In the film, you get what appears to be a real tornado. Yes, it’s a special effect, but film is a realistic space where if the script says “Lady Cheesefritter takes a long walk on the beach while contemplating true love,” the director is likely to go on location and shoot the scene in just such a place. In the theater you might get a few piles of sand, while the sound effects guy pipes in the sound of waves crashing on the beach. Film looks real.

What does this have to do with Shakespeare? Well look at Shakespeare’s language for a minute. After Macbeth kills King Duncan, for example, he reports his “discovery” of the body to Macduff:

Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin laced with his golden blood,
And his gashed stabs looked like a breach in nature
For ruin’s wasteful entrance; there the murderers,
Steeped in the colors of their trade, their daggers
Unmannerly breeched with gore. (2.3.130-135)

Shakespeare is giving a picture perfect description of a scene that his audience cannot see. Much of the language in Shakespeare does this, evoking pictures in the mind through the use of metaphor, allusion, and rich sensory description. And this suits the stage beautifully where one’s imagination is engaged and ready to follow the language’s prompting.

In films, the emphasis is often on visual imagery. It would take a director 10 seconds to show the grotesque scene of the slaughtered Duncan and his attendants. And given our current penchant for the gruesome in our movies, we could expect most directors to do just that. But what happens when a director decides to show something that Shakespeare has taken six eloquent lines to evoke? You have a choice – you can leave the lines in, expecting that their richness will enhance your scene. Or you can save time, avoid redundancy and cut them out. Because current film attendees expect their movies to be roughly two hours and most of Shakespeare’s plays clock in around three, a lot of directors opt for the latter.

So, as you watch the Radford, be aware of a few techniques that make filmed Shakespeare unique and which point to the power of film as a medium. First, Shakespeare film directors tend to add visually evocative openings that set theme, tone, and specific imagery before the first lines of the play even begin. Here, Radford will walk you through the busy streets of Venice where you’ll see the tension between Christians and Jews, between the puritanical and the prurient (those are prostitutes with their breasts exposed), and he’ll establish Antonio and Shylock’s animosity as well as Lorenzo and Jessica’s love. When Shylock complains that Antonio spit on him, you will have already seen that, and Shylock’s motivation for what follows will be clearer.

Second, filmmakers have space. And they’re not afraid to use it. Look at the establishing shots of the Rialto and of Belmont, the latter a little island in larger body of water. These expand Shakespeare’s world, and thus make the denizens of it smaller. On stage, Othello, Hamlet, Romeo, and Shylock are huge in comparison, and their love, their torment, their rise and fall, their marriages have weight. On screen, the filmmaker must compensate for the fact that movies reduce the human scale. And how they do this is our third point.

The filmmaker is in control of the viewer’s eye, while stage productions are not. We must look where the camera tells us to – at close-ups, at reaction shots instead of the speaker, at visual metaphors. Shylock may be saying “If you prick us, do we not bleed?”, but the camera might be looking at a bored Salarino. Or it could be coming in for a tight shot on Shylock’s somber face. The director’s choice affects how you understand the line. One makes Shylock a prating knave, the other a spokesperson for modern multiculturalism who deserves our sympathy. And because of shots like closeups or flashbacks or cut in shots of symbolic objects, we can be much more in tune with a character’s inner psychology than the stage gives us access to. Read Shylock and you determine motivation and character from what he says, what is said about him, and your perceived subtext. Watch Shylock on film, and you know about him from what the director shows you in parallel with what he says, what is said about him, etc. Does Radford shows us flashbacks of Shylock playing as a little boy, being taunted by scornful nuns? Thankfully, no, but if he did, you’d have a much different sense of his motivation and animosity toward Antonio.

Radford’s film, whatever else we can say about Shakespeare on film and the director’s approach to the work, is a thing of beauty. The cinematography is gorgeous and sumptuously composed, displaying a deft use of color and costume to shape the films tone and mood. The acting is likewise unassailable. Pacino, Pacino!, is great as Shylock. Fiennes’s Bassanio is cute and knows it. Collins’s Portia offers both the necessary attractiveness and intelligence; she’s not so brittle as Gwyneth Paltrow nor so unsophisticated as Clare Danes. Irons’s Antonio is so morose he looks like he’d puke if you offered him a hug. He’s just not going to feel better, thank you very much. Radford cuts a lot of lines. If you’re a purist you may be angry. If you’re not you may still wonder, what is left of Shakespeare when you take out so much of his language?

Either way, we hope you enjoy the show. We wouldn’t miss it for a wilderness of monkeys.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Milos Forman's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975)

Program unavailable at this time.

Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo (1982)

Imagine, if you will, a giant boat. This boat is three stories tall, over three hundred feet long, and weighs 340 tons. It’s luxurious and a sight for almost everyone to see. Now imagine that same boat being pulled up a giant mountain, with no machinery whatsoever. Welcome to the world of Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo.

Herzog’s Fritzcarraldo is one of those films like Apocalypse Now that works on two levels. On the first, it is a brilliant insight into the dreams of one man. On the second, it is a marvel to see how far a director will go to accomplish his vision. The film is a realist vision of an eccentric Irishman trying to accomplish the impossible. But beyond the film, director Werner Herzog demanded more out of his crew than any other director before him, pushing his crew to insanity, and thus making the film even better. The two stories go hand in hand: the film influenced the production, and visa versa.

The film begins with madness and continues throughout. We see a small boat with a dead motor, slowly pushing its way to an opera house in the middle of a small town on the Amazon River. The man on the boat is Brian Sweeny Fitzgerald (based on a real man), or as the natives call him, Fitzcarraldo (played by Klaus Kinski). Fitzcarraldo has one vision: build an opera house in the middle of the Amazon and have the great Italian singer Enrico Caruso star there opening night. But the only problem is that he cannot get to the place where the Opera shall be built. But Fitzcarraldo has a brilliant idea: carry his boat over a mountain from a river close to where the opera must be built and into another river.

The madness of such an idea makes for a brilliant film but something more amazing happened. Director Werner Herzog actually carried that boat over the mountain. The images of the boat climbing the mountain are both absurd and glorious. It’s almost impossible to understand what could drive a man to do that. But if it had been a plastic boat or special effects, this film would have no power. The spectacle is in the reality. Not only did Herzog carry this boat, but he did it in the heart of the Amazon with a crew of natives who spoke neither a word of English nor German (and were unfairly never paid).

Werner Herzog has been one of those directors whose ambitious expectations have become legend. Aguirre: The Wrath of God, telling the story of one man’s mad quest for El Dorado, also featured the story of man versus nature and was also shot in the middle of the jungle, miles away from civilization. Nosferatu, a remake of F.W. Murnau’s silent classic, explored the madness of the main character and was shot using Murnau’s original locations. This is ambition bordering on insanity, and Herzog has always explored madness whether as a director, a documentary filmmaker (Little Dieter Needs to Fly, Grizzly Man), or an actor in a documentary (Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe).

And the only actor who could complement Herzog was Klaus Kinski. Klaus and Werner went together like two best friends with PMS; put them together and they could either create magic or kill each other. (On the set of Aguirre, it is rumored Herzog pulled a gun on Kinski in order to make him finish a scene.) In Fitzcarraldo, Kinski pulled his soul and heart into the film. You can feel his pain at every mistake and his amazing joy at the successes. Originally, Jason Robards was cast (and Rolling Stone’s singer Mick Jagger as his captain). But Robards would have simply been playing a madman; Kinski is a madman. Kinski and Herzog made five films together, and despite the hatethat frequently erupted between the two, they formed a deep respect (as seen in Herzog’s My Best Fiend: Klaus Kinski).

Fitzcarraldo is a film that can only be appreciated when seen. It’s such a strong and ambitious experience that it’s almost impossible to deny its power. Whether you enjoy this film or not, you must respect the power of Herzog and Kinski.

Peter Labuza
Film Club Co-President

Roman Polanski’s Chinatown (1974)

Forget It Jake: The Key Ways in Which Chinatown Reflects the Classic Film Noir Period

According to Todd Erickson's "Kill Me Again: Movement Becomes Genre," Roman Polanski's 1974 film Chinatown "is the only 'period noir' which manages to maintain an air of timelessness in its presentation." (Erickson 312). Chinatown is exceptional filmmaking with such essential noir elements as the non-heroic private eye, the complicated labyrinth-like plot structure, and a despairing, fatalistic worldview.

Above all, Chinatown is properly "voiced" in the classic noir style, although there is no actual voiceover used. The film stays with a single, subjective point-of-view, that of the main character, private investigator J.J. "Jake" Gittes. Polanski's camera tails Gittes as he is duped by the duplicitous woman (Evelyn Mulwray), who strings him along with lies and evasive half-truths even before Jake encounters an immoral businessman (Noah Cross) who happens to be Evelyn's father.

A detective in the vein of Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon and Philip Marlowe in Murder, My Sweet, Gittes is a much coarser fellow with fancier pretenses. For example, he attempts to cover up his rough language in front of the ladies while making certain his pocket-handkerchief is arranged correctly in the breast pocket of his tailored suit.

This duality of character further enhances the theme of the film. Gittes searches for the truth about the Mulwrays and the Department of Water and Power never even pretending to limit his search to within the boundaries of the law. At one point, he impersonates a W&P company official in order to gain access to a restricted area; in another, he willfully destroys documents in the Hall of Records for his own immediate gain.

Much like Spade, Gittes has hard-boiled sensibilities, but Jake's code has a wider scope and latitude. The bottom line for Gittes is image, how others perceive him. Indeed, his primary reason for remaining on the Mulwray case initially is that he has been duped and exposed as such in the press. Gittes has to discover the truth in order to save face, subtly enhancing the central metaphor of Chinatown: a major code of the "inscrutable" East is the tradition of allowing combatants to "save face."

In addition, Chinatown has the requisite complicated plot. Despite the twists and turns, it is plausible, and it enhances the suspension of disbelief (323). …

Finally, Chinatown's worldview is one of despair, alienation and fatalism, all celebrated traits of classic noir. … In the world of Chinatown, there are no givens, no best bets, no sure things. The entire worldview is symbolized by the place, "Chinatown." This is a place where nothing is known, a mysterious place closed to outsiders, where nothing is as it seems. In a structure similar to films of the "classic" noir period, the viewer follows Gittes, sees what he sees, knows only what he knows, gets duped right along with him, and realizes finally that one can never really know anything for certain. Most assuredly, Chinatown delivers a "vicarious experience of the nightmarish world of noir" (323).

Tracy Taylor
© 2003, The Write Word, Inc.

Richard Lester’s A Hard Day’s Night (1964)

In 400 years, when our descendants look back on the 20^th century and reduce our culture to a few prominent artists, performers, and thinkers, what will stand out? If today we can only name one English Renaissance playwright (no, it’s not Ben Jonson), what are the chances that the University of Minnesota will have a class in 2407 examining the films of Adam Sandler? When it comes to music, the last century offered us so many geniuses – Igor Stravinsky, Duke Ellington, George Gershwin, Elvis – it is sad to think how such a diverse period might be encapsulated. For longevity, our money is on the Beatles.

Despite a relatively short “lifespan” (their performances as a group cover only a single decade – 1960 to 1970), the Beatles shaped and changed most popular music that came after them. They moved from pop sensation to socially conscious artists, they expanded their musical scope from western to worldly, they both reflected and motivated the political and social culture around them.

They also made movies, in an era before music videos became mainstream. And while they were not the first musical group to do so – big band leaders and other rock and roll groups, like Bill Haley and the Comets, preceded them – their movies echoed the innovation one finds in their music. Richard Lester’s film A Hard Day’s Night is an excellent example. Far more than a performance film, A Hard Day’s Night builds the persona – cheeky, witty, independent, fun-loving, and lovable – that drew legions of fans to them. The film is as interested with their activities off the stage as on it, but both are performances. In this way, the film is a mock-documentary, anticipating by over a decade the mockumentary style that has become so popular in the films about fake bands (This is Spinal Tap, Fear of a Black Hat) and fake people (Best in Show, Waiting for Guffman).

In addition, Lester chose innovative methods of filming to enhance the movie – a cinema vérité style, a minimalist plot that puts the performances in context, and a rapid-fire approach to dialogue that added the naturalistic documentary style. Today the use of black and white also looks innovative, but at the time Lester resorted to it to save money on the production. In retrospect it was the right choice artistically too.

In the end, the movie participates in and establishes the Beatles’ legend. It captures a musical moment, but also acquaints you with the lads as media darlings and individual voices without appearing false or insincere. Wikipedia points out that A Hard Day’s Night was filmed, in 1964, at the height of Beatlemania and that the studio that produced the film rushed the production, believing that fan interest would have dissipated before the film would be finished. They were famously wrong, and the Lester and Beatles went on to make a second film, Help!.

A Hard Day’s Night is clearly secondary to the Beatles music, but it leaves us with a visual reminder of the group just entering the top of their popularity and creativity. Historians will find it harder to overlook them, in part because Lester has done more than document their musicality. He has also captured their winning, disarming personalities in a way that seems authentic. Watching the movie now, 44 years after it was made, it still seems fresh. And we believe it will feel the same, even after 444 years.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954)

To understand where we are now, we must understand our past. Every month, Hollywood releases some large action film with big actors and fight scenes. But how did today’s action film begin? The answer lies not in America, but in Japan.

Akira Kurosawa’s three-and-a-half hour sweeping epic Seven Samurai remains the epitome, and the beginning, of today’s adventure and action films. It takes a simple story, combines it with compelling characters, throws in some heart pounding action scenes, and a pinch of romance. But unlike the action films of today, all these parts work as a whole, and were made for the glory, not the money.

The story follows seven samurai who decide to defend a helpless village from a group of bandits who are planning to raid their crops during the harvest. The samurai will be fed small bowls of rice and given little to no payment, with the chance of success at a minimum. Why bother then? Maybe it’s for the samurai code and honor. Maybe for the adventure. Each comes for his own reason.

At three-and-a-half hours, Seven Samurai IS a daunting task for many to watch. The original American release had fifty minutes cut. But there is a reason for its length: to build real characters. Each samurai is given his own story without feeling unnecessary. We see the relationship between the samurai and the villagers grow. We see the crops grow. So when we get to the big raid of the village, we actually care for the characters and can actually mourn their deaths. It’s an ambitious task to say the least.

Kurosawa seems to meander toward two main characters. Takashi Shimura, also greatly known for his role in Ikuru, plays Kashimi, the eldest and leader of the samurai. He is not the strongest or best swordsman, and spends much of his time shaking his head, planning out the attack, and mapping out the story for us. Shimura simply plays this straight, not trying to overact. He is a knowledge bowl of mystery, a quiet man with a great aura, and works perfectly as our guide throughout this adventure.

Our comic relief and slight underdog is Kikuchyo played by the phenomenal Toshiro Mifune. Kikuchyo is only posing as a samurai, while actually a farmer’s son. He is bold, impulsive, clumsy, and a showoff. He carries a sword longer than others, thinking that can prove his worth. But in a film that’s 207 minutes long that, we start seeing him less as comic relief but as a full-fledged character that we will cheer for.

As Kurosawa would influence generations of filmmakers, Seven Samurai has many influences. Marxist ideas and Russian literature flow through the story. The action scenes feel inspired from Americans DW Griffith and John Ford. The characters, as fleshed as they may be, can be attributed a lot of Western cinema. Japanese critics attacked Kurosawa for being too Western sometimes, but he was simply doing what he must do – breaking out of the norm. His Japanese auteur counterpart, Yasujiro Ozu (Tokyo Story), whose films were slow meditations on human nature, has no place in Kurosawa’s epics.

As much as Seven Samurai influenced today’s modern action films, it also created the remake. The Magnificent Seven, a western set in Mexico, is one of the first remakes ever made. Many of Kurosawa’s films would be slightly remade for American audiences, including Yojimbo as A Fistful of Dollars and The Hidden Fortress as Star Wars. Influences are simply not just in remakes but also in story arch, character types, and climaxes.

Seven Samurai is the king of action and adventure films. It’s brilliant in character, production design, and story. Although it is a daunting task to watch the entire film, the breadth of the film allows audience’s to appreciate its brilliance. To understand where we are going, we must know where we came from. One of the most influential films of all time, Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai is a true masterpiece.

Peter Labuza
Film Club

Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989)

Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing is an important movie, one that penetrates to the heart of racial unrest in our country. Despite its intense conflicts, there are no villains in the film. Everyone’s point of view is clear and supportable. This is how life is. And when it comes to solving the conflict we are often faced with contradictory options, unsatisfactory compromises, and potential chaos. Or, as Spike Lee demonstrates so clearly, choices that are as widely divergent as the perspectives of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X.

We offer the following discussion questions from William V. Constanzo's Reading the Movies for your consideration as we take this week and this movie to think about the legacy of Dr. King and America’s ongoing struggle to find racial harmony and respect within a diverse community. Enjoy Lee’s film; it’s one of the best.

- Film Club and Intercultural Club

1. Do the Right Thing presents more characters than do most films. How does Spike Lee keep them all alive? How does he create a sense of community among them? To what extent is the block itself a character in the film?

2. Is the central issue between Sal and the community or does it involve other people, other groups?

3. Who are the victims of the violence in this film? Where do you think the blame lies? Does the film suggest solutions?

4. What is the function of the disc jockey, Mister Senor Love Daddy? Of Da Mayor? Of Mother Sister?

5. Spike Lee has been commended for his ability to keep up the momentum through the entire film. Do you agree? What helps to maintain the pace?

6. What motivates Mookie to throw the trash can through the window of Sal’s Pizzeria? At the end of the movie, does Mookie “do the right thing”? Explain.

7. Many of the characters in the film seem inarticulate. Smiley stutters. Radio Raheem speaks chiefly through his radio. Mookie accuses Tina of choking her speech with obscenities. How does this film dramatize the frustrations of expressing deeply felt emotions and beliefs?

8. What parallels can be drawn between the film and historical or current events?

9. Several conflicts are presented in the film: between Sal and Buggin’ Out, between the police and the community, between the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. and those of Malcolm X. Do you think the director takes sides? How can you tell?

10. What do you think has been learned by the end of the film? Who has learned the most?

Robert Altman’s M*A*S*H (1970)

Robert Altman, director of tonight’s film M*A*S*H and the recently released Prairie Home Companion, died last November. He leaves behind an impressive body of work, including Nashville, Short Cuts, The Player, and Gosford Park, notable as ensemble acting pieces in which character and character interaction supercede plot. Altman is not the only director to build his films around people and naturalistic interactions – Woody Allen has done the same for decades – but Altman’s style is less self-conscious and often impishly mines more political undertones.

M*A*S*H, for instance, depicts the daily life of doctors and nurses at a ramshackle military hospital during the Korean War. Altman made the film, however, during the Vietnam War; its audience could be expected to draw some obvious parallels. And in making a movie that is essentially plotless and comic, Altman is offering a satirical criticism of war’s insanity.

If you’ve watched the TV show M*A*S*H, you’ll notice some major differences. Alan Alda and Wayne Rogers as “Hawkeye” Pierce and “Trapper John” McIntyre are more righteous, cleaner, more scripted, and less likely to offend than their film counterparts, Donald Sutherland and Elliott Gould. In short the movie is more profane, poking fun at military bureaucracy, racial identity, the sanctity of death, hypocrisy, and self-importance. Also the TV show had a laugh-track, famously turned off during the surgery scenes, while the movie has more faith in its humor and in the audience’s ability to perceive it. For me, one of the most telling differences has to do with the movie’s soundtrack. Both the film and the TV show use the same theme, “Suicide is Painless,” written by Johnny Mandel and Mike Altman (son of Robert). One verse and the refrain cynically go: “The game of life is hard to play; I'm gonna lose it anyway. The losing card I'll someday lay, so this is all I have to say … that suicide is painless. It brings on many changes, and I can take or leave it if I please.” The TV show, however, removed the lyrics and kept it just as an instrumental theme.

As America continues its involvement in Iraq, perhaps this as good a time as any to rescreen M*A*S*H, for it reminds us that no matter where we fight, what military prowess we bring to bear, or what larger purpose we might serve, in the end humanity, however wounded, survives while sanity is frequently the first casualty.

We often try to link the cartoon we show with the movie. Tonight we have a perfect pairing with Jules Feiffer’s “Munro.” Although it is made a decade earlier, Feiffer’s short animated film about a four-year-old boy who is inducted into the army and can’t convince them that they’ve made a mistake, comically unites tonight’s two features. Enjoy, and keep your head down.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser