In the City of Sylvia: Before Sunset with no talking

Jose Luis Guerin’s “In the City of Sylvia” (2007) follows a young man on his search through Strasbourg, France, for a woman named Sylvia.  He met her six years prior while visiting the city, and spends his first two days at a café, watching the other customers (primarily the women) while also sketching a select few in his notebook.  On the second day, he sees her leaving the café, and then proceeds to follow her into the city.  Early on, he is hesitant to get her attention right away, and when he does manage to call her name, she doesn’t respond, leading one to doubt whether this woman is indeed the Sylvia.  Nevertheless, he still maintains his pursuit.  At one point, he loses track of her, doubling back to where she was last seen.  During this portion, she appears to be walking in circles, almost comically so.  When he finally catches up with her on a train car, she responds with agitation, which makes sense because when he asks if she remembers him from the conservatory six years ago, she says no, and her name isn’t Sylvia.  He can’t believe she is not Sylvia, almost insisting she has to be.  When he finally accepts he has made a mistake, she admonishes him for following her around, forcing her to try and lose him, ducking into stores.  How did he expect her to react with a stranger following her?  As she leaves the train, she blows him a kiss and hopes he finds her.

Even when I first saw the trailer, part of me did think the premise was a bit creepy, the thought of a man following a woman around for a majority of the film.  As it turns out, the director agrees with this assumption.  Criticizing the main character’s actions is also a way of criticizing the trope of long lost lovers finding each other again after years of being apart.  Even if the woman was Sylvia, and she was lying to him, it would be even further criticism of this kind of plot.  Even if he was right, it has been six years, so what should he expect?  Even if they had a strong connection when they first met, did he really expect her to wait all that time for him?  What if she has a partner, a husband, or just, you know, moved on with her life.  The two days he spent trying to find her, he sees all these different women, who appear again at the end of the film while he waits at a train stop.  If he had not wasted his time trying to locate a woman he hasn’t seen in six years, he possibly could have met someone else.  When the woman says she hopes he finds Sylvia, she might as well have said she hopes he someone.  After his failed mission, he sleeps with a woman he meets in a bar.  While facing each other in his dark hotel room, it appears the woman is staring at him, as if she is saying, “are you happy now?”  The idea of there being just one person in the world for you is another overly romanticized theme.  Is there someone out there you would get along with more so than others?  Of course.  Is there someone out there worth waiting or looking for after six or nine years?  Probably not. 

    

Best Films of the 1990s

The first five are in order of preference, everything after that is random,

Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino) 1994

Fargo (Joel and Ethan Coen) 1996

La Haine (Mathieu Kassovitz) 1995

Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese) 1990

Dead Man (Jim Jarmusch) 1995

Being John Malkovich (Spike Jonze) 1999

Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse (Fax Bahr, George Hickenlooper, Eleanor Coppola) 1991

Dark City (Alex Proyas) 1998

Three Kings (David O. Russell) 1999

La Belle Noiseuse (Jacques Rivette) 1991

The Shawshank Redemption (Frank Darabont) 1994

All About My Mother (Pedro Almodóvar) 1999

Secrets & Lies (Mike Leigh) 1996

Beauty and the Beast (Gary Trousdale, Kirk Wise) 1991

Seven (David Fincher) 1995

Three Colors: Blue (Krzysztof Kieslowski) 1993

Magnolia (Paul Thomas Anderson) 1999

Before Sunrise (Richard Linklater) 1995

The Hairdresser's Husband (Patrice Leconte) 1990

Princess Mononoke (Hayao Miyazaki) 1997

Fight Club (David Fincher) 1999

Three Colors: Red (Krzysztof Kieslowski) 1994

Trainspotting (Danny Boyle) 1996

Ratcatcher (Lynne Ramsay) 1999

Boogie Nights (Paul Thomas Anderson) 1997

Special Jury Prize:
Leolo (Jean-Claude Lauzon) 1992

Honorable Mention:
Election (Alexander Payne) 1999

Disclaimer: I've yet to see the Dardenne Brothers' "Rosetta" and "La Promesse," and the ending of Clint Eastwood's "Unforgiven" still bothers me.

Hugo (Martin Scorsese) 2011

     The first half of Martin Scorsese's "Hugo" is a very effective depiction of a young orphan boy named Hugo living in a Paris train station, and it has been identified as "Dickensian" by critics for no better reason then its inclusion of orphans with English accents who are treated terribly by adults.  The best moments are the point of view shots as Hugo observes the passengers and workers from the station's clocks, reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock's "Rear Window."  Also well done is the main theme of his search for a purpose in life, though he assumes it will be related to his job of running the station's clocks and fixing the automaton his Father found in a museum before his death. 
     When the focus switches to the preservation of George Méliès' films and early film history, "Hugo" has an unnecessary dependence on expository dialogue.  Although we are shown footage from classic silent films and recreations of Méliès work, there is a voice over narration that feels like it belongs in a PBS program.  In particular, when Hugo and Isabelle read a book on the beginnings of film and Méliès explains how his film career began and flourished, the narration could have been cut altogether, leaving the images alone with the film's score.  If there was a need for explanation, it could have been short and concise, such as when Méliès points to World War I as the eventual decline of his films' popularity, the only line needed was, "And then the Great War began," and that's it.  While the script's dependence on the source novel, "The Invention of Hugo Cabret" by Brian Selznick may be to blame, Scorsese did manage to avoid heavy narration in a scene when Hugo is having a nightmare of a train going off the tracks and crashing through the station's front entrance.  While the book explains that this really happened, Scorsese allows the scene to be on its own with no added dialogue, with the final shot resembling the photograph of the actual train crash.  It's scenes like this that make you wonder why Scorsese didn't follow this model throughout the film, and how it could have benefited from more "show" and less "tell."

Ratatouille: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Rat

     In the Pixar film, "Ratatouille," writer/director Brad Bird begins with what appears to be a simple and quirky story of a rat in France who dreams of being a great chef.  Remy, the aspiring cook/rat, befriends a clumsy and innocuous human named Linguini whose movements Remy can control by tugging his hair, thus giving Remy a vessel to pursue a career in cooking.  When Remy's father learns of Remy's job cooking with Linguini at a Parisian restaurant, he warns his son of the potential dangers of interacting with humans.  His father takes him to a pest control shop which displays dead rats in its window, explaining that rats will always be seen as vermin, first and foremost, and no matter how comfortable Remy becomes in his new surroundings, he "can't change nature."  Remy then defiantly refuses this notion, responding, "change is nature."  He refuses to accept that being a "rat" and spending his life with his rat clan is all he can hope to be.  The film's main theme now becomes evident with Remy's search for identity, unsatisfied with the potential of searching for food in the garbage, he wants to create something, he wants to cook.  Remy's frustration with his role in society is in full view when he confronts Gusteau, his imaginary chef who acts as his mentor, "I'm sick of pretending. I pretend to be a rat for my father. I pretend to be a human through Linguini. I pretend you exist so I have someone to talk to! You only tell me stuff I already know! I know who I am! Why do I need you to tell me? Why do I need to pretend?"  What Remy learns in the end is he doesn't have to be one or the other, he can be both a rat and a cook.  The film stresses we don't have to be defined by a specific role, that each individual is complex and unique unto him/herself.  A.O. Scott of the New York Times wrote that "Ratatouille" is "one of the most persuasive portraits of an artist ever committed to film," not only for showing Remy's initiation into the cooking process, but also his journey through self discovery to find his own success and going beyond his designated role in society.

The lack of empathetic characters in "No Counrtry for Old Men"

     The praise for the Coen brothers' "No Country for Old Men" has focused on the film's meticulous set-up of the scenes involving Josh Brolin's Llewelyn Moss and Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh.  Chigurh's persistent hunt for Moss is given great attention to detail in scenes such as when Chigurh removes his boots so not to be heard and Moss construction of tools out of whatever is available (even though after multiple viewings this reminds me more of "MacGyver").  However, all this momentum comes to a halt when Moss is found shot to death in a motel room.  While the unexpected and anticlimactic death of a main character would seem to be the film's main problem, it is actually more so in the abrupt attempt to focus on the perspective of Tommy Lee Jones' Sheriff Ed Tom Bell.  Although the Sheriff has a few scenes earlier in the film, the bulk of the attention is on Moss and Chigurh.  In the end, the Coens try to make the audience see the destruction and reckless behavior of Moss and Chirgurh through the eyes of the Sheriff.  He is shocked by the actions of the two men, how people can treat each other so.  The problem with this tactic is we don't spend enough time with the Sheriff, since the story is mainly told from the point of view from the other two characters, and then all of a sudden we're supposed to sympathize with the Sheriff mostly by way of his forlorn stare and "aw-shucks, I can't believe this just happened" demeanor.   
     The basic structure of "No Country for Old Men" is similar and more a effective in David Fincher's "Seven," with Morgan Freeman's Detective Somerset in the place of Sheriff Bell, Brad Pitt's Detective Mills for Moss, and Kevin Spacey's John Doe for Chigurh.  Both films have a main theme of man's inhumanity to man, but the difference is Somerset is our guide throughout the entire film, he is the main character, and all of the atrocities are seen from his point of view.  From the beginning, he is presented as the experienced, somewhat jaded detective on the verge of retirement who mentors the young, naive, and at times reckless, ambition of Mills.  This relationship further helps us to identify Somerset as the one who will make the best and hardest decisions, leading Mills through the case.  When "No Country for Old Men" ends on another anticlimactic note with the Sheriff's recollection of an enigmatic dream about his father, "Seven" again manages to out do the Coen brothers with Somerset's last line, "Ernest Hemingway once wrote, 'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.'  I agree with the second part."

Goodfellas: The Last Temptation of Karen Hill

     "This is not a movie with a lot to say, but it's a movie with a lot of great stories to tell."  This quote is from New York Times' film critic, A.O. Scott, on Martin Scorsese's "Goodfellas," in reference to the film's fast-paced, docudrama narrative style.  Scott argues Scorsese is not interested in grand "Shakespearean" themes, but more in immersing us in the world of the Mafia.  This is a bit of departure from Scorsese's other work, such as Taxi Driver, Mean Streets, and Raging Bull, which are more of character studies dealing with inner conflicts on what society expects them to do.  The characters in "Goodfellas" are not conflicted at all about their roles in society.  They relish the power they have, the only laws they follow are those of the mob, and sometimes not even then.  When Henry Hill is put into the Witness Protection Program, the only thing he regrets is no longer being in the mafia, now he's just a "bum" like everybody else.
     The only true Scorsesean character in "Goodfellas" is Henry's wife, Karen.  From the beginning of their relationship, because her family is Jewish, she was concerned they wouldn't except him since he was an Irish-Italian American.  When Henry tells her to hide the bloody gun he used to beat her neighbor's face in, there is a shot looking down at the gun in her hands, she knew she should have left him right then and there, but she was also exhilarated by the whole event, at how dangerous and violent Henry could be.  When she is introduced to the other mafia wives, she can only think about how terrible they look, wearing too much make-up, awful clothes, and they all talk about how terrible their kids are and their husbands are never home.  She worries about ending up like them, and will it just be inevitable since the only people they interact with are the other mafia families?  Soon she excepts this new life, that these are the only people they spend time with, it all becomes "normal."  She is able to distract herself with the mafia lifestyle's perks, such as when she asks Henry for shopping money and he asks how much, she doesn't say a number, but indicates a size with the space between her index finger and thumb.  The one aspect of the mafia lifestyle she can't except is Henry's mistress.  She is so infuriated that at one point she goes to the mistress' apartment building with her two children and  screams into the intercom to stay away from her husband.  When she confronts Henry, she does so by pointing a gun at this face, perhaps the only way she knows how to fully get his attention.  Although only given a supporting role, Karen finds her place among the other Scorsese characters who struggle with what to do when they don't agree with what is expected of them.             

"WALL-E" and Terry Gilliam's "Brazil"

      While it may be obvious and possibly intentional since one uses the others theme music for a teaser trailer, the similarities between Andrew Stanton's "WALL-E" and Terry Gilliam's "Brazil" go beyond the depiction of a post-apocalyptic world, as both main characters are motivated not by strong political or environmental beliefs, but love.  Both characters have tedious jobs, WALL-E is basically a mobile trash compactor, and Sam Lowry of "Brazil" has a low-level government position.  The only moments they have in breaking the tedium of their daily routines is their aspirations for love, with Lowry's frequent visions of a woman in his dreams that he later identifies as suspected terrorist, Jill Layton, and WALL-E's desire for companionship as viewed in a love-scene from "Hello, Dolly!" which he later associates with the arrival of EVE, a robot sent to investigate the possible return of vegetation on Earth.  Their love for these two female characters motivates their actions throughout the films, as WALL-E tries to fulfill EVE's mission of getting the plant to the spaceship's bridge, while Lowry takes a promotion to find out more information on Layton which ultimately leads to blowing shit up with Robert De Niro for one reason or another.  One difference between the films is that "Brazil" takes place in a totalitarian society, while "WALL-E" is on the Buy-n-Large megaship.  However, some incredibly cynical people could see Buy-n-Large as a totalitarian environment since although the robots assist the human passengers with all of their needs, they also tell them what to eat, what color suit to wear, and Auto is presented as the De facto captain of the ship, refusing to follow the human captain's orders.  Of course, Auto has been programmed not to return to Earth because it is deemed uninhabitable, but so what.  In the end, both WALL-E and Lowry live happily ever after with EVE and Layton, although Lowry turns out to be only imagining his happiness while he is actually strapped to a chair in a catatonic state, but hey, he thinks he's happy, and that's all that matters.  Right?  

The Good Old Days as seen in "Wonder Boys"

     In Michael Chabon's novel, "Wonder Boys," which was later adapted to a film directed by Curtis Hanson, we are introduced to James Leer, a college student in the writing class of the main character, Grady Tripp.  James is a socially awkward recluse, who happens to be the most talented writer in Grady's class.  He loves classic Hollywood films from the late-thirties and forties, especially those directed by Frank Capra and starring George Sanders.  He also has a strong fascination with the deaths of many of the movie stars from this era, particularly those who have committed suicide.  Although it might appear contrary to love these films hailed for their optimism, while also obsessing over how actors such as Sanders killed themselves by taking pills, this contrast is what James is so attracted to, how everything, no matter how good and peaceful, can also have moments of great depression.  At a time when Hollywood projected a specific image of America, particularly small-towns, James understood this image was not necessarily true, as he also believed his favorite director, Capra, knew this to be a romantic fabrication.  To quote the novel, "Capra was always thought of as a great sentimentalist, but the world of his films was filled with shadows--only one man's life, remember, separated Bedford Falls from the garish nightmare of Pottersville--in which there often lurked the specter of ruin and suicide and shame."  There are many times when I hear people over the age of 60 speak of how much better things were when they were growing up, how safe it was and how you didn't have to worry about what strange people were going to do.  You have to wonder how much of this perception was created solely by Hollywood films and television, or is it more the selective memories of the audience?  Did they simply choose to look past the bleak moments in favor of the white picket fences?  It is understandable to view the past in a positive light, but one may also be overlooking a whole other important aspect of life.               

"Love Songs:" The Musical that didn't need music

     After watching a Musical, your first thought probably shouldn't be, "that would have been a really good movie if it wasn't for the music."  Unfortunately, this is the case for Christophe Honore's film, "Love Songs."  Released in 2007, it is considered a "modern" musical, set in present day Paris, following the relationships of three young people, Julie, Alice, and Ismael, how they manage their three-way romance, and how they deal with their immediate grief when Julie dies unexpectedly.  The musical numbers are not elaborately staged, but take place while the characters are walking down the street or sitting in their apartments, however, the problem with the musical elements is not the lack of big production, but the type of music.  Not that there's anything wrong with mumbling French indie rock, it's just too insipid to be an effective device in complementing the plot.  The music should enhance our emotional commitment to the film, not leave us hoping for it to stop so we can get back to the narrative.  There are some wonderful moments in the film, from the look of the cold, damp Parisian streets, the black and white still-photograph sequence of Julie's funeral, to Ismael's seemingly desperate fling with another man that turns into a serious romance.  While I was left thinking of these moments, I forgot the musical numbers almost immediately, and began to wonder if they were even necessary in the first place. 
     Once the films was over, I started to think of certain scenes not with its original music, but with a song by Johnny Flynn and Laura Marling called "The Water."  I first became aware of this song when it was included in the second half of the trailer for another French film, "Goodbye First Love," directed by Mia Hansen-Love.  Though it only took up thirty seconds of the trailer, Flynn's song managed to create a greater sense of young people living in Paris (or another French city) more so than any of the musical numbers in "Love Songs."  It's hard to say if Honore should have just scrapped the whole musical idea and included music in a more traditional manner, or maybe the characters simply could have sung better songs.  Whatever the reason may be, if I ever become more fond of mumbling French music, I will give Honore's film another try, but until that day happens, I'd rather listen to Johnny Flynn.

Best Films of the 2000s

The top five are pretty much in order, everything after that is random.

Ratatouille (Brad Bird) 2007

Mulholland Dr. (David Lynch) 2001

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Michel Gondry) 2004

Half Nelson (Ryan Fleck) 2006

Almost Famous (Cameron Crowe) 2000

Pan's Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro) 2006

Before Sunset (Richard Linklater) 2004

Finding Nemo (Andrew Stanton, Lee Unkrich) 2003

The Son (Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne) 2002

Spirited Away (Hayao Miyazaki) 2001

Kill Bill Vol. 2 (Quentin Tarantino) 2004

Y Tu Mama Tambien (Alfonso Cuaron) 2001

Kings and Queen (Arnaud Desplechin) 2004

The Edge of Heaven (Fatih Akin) 2007

The Best of Youth (Marco Tullio Giordana) 2003

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (Julian Schnabel) 2007

35 Shots of Rum (Claire Denis) 2009

Bus 174 (Jose Padiha, Felipe Lacerda) 2002

Let the Right One In (Tomas Alfredson) 2008

WALL-E (Andrew Stanton) 2008

Honorable Mentions:
The Beat that My Heart Skipped (Jacques Audiard) 2005
24 Hour Party People (Michael Winterbottom) 2002
Hunger (Steve McQueen) 2008

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (David Fincher) 2011

     Although I'm a fan of David Fincher's films, I was still a little hesitant to see his version of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" based on its reputation of brutality, a convoluted plot, and overall Swedishness.  While these elements are very much a part of the film, the investigation conducted by Blomkvist and Salander was completely enthralling, reminiscent of the other police procedurals by Fincher, "Seven" and the first two-thirds of "Zodiac."  When Salander discovers the names and numbers from Harriet Vanger's notebook were the female murder victims and the corresponding Bible verses describing how they were killed, I suddenly realized how similar this revelation was to "Seven," and no wonder Fincher was attracted to this material.
     Once it is revealed the killer was Gottfried Vanger, Harriet's ex-Nazi Father, and the victims had biblical or Jewish names, the film then rushes past the reasoning for these murders and why he made such elaborate connections to the Bible.  Instead we are left to assume he committed these acts because was a Nazi, and that's it.  Even worse is his son Martin, who also grew up to be a serial killer of young women, however, he doesn't make any grand statements like his Father, he kills them simply because he gets a kick out of it.  When he is finished with his victims, he doesn't leave any evidence, he even mocks his Father for leaving the bodies in such a theatrical manner, for not being practical.  This is sound advice for not getting caught, but it doesn't make for a very interesting character.
     What makes this so frustrating is Fincher has already dealt with similar material.  In "Seven," when the identity of John Doe had been discovered after the majority of the film had focused on his murders that correspond with the seven deadly sins, there is a scene when Detective Somerset reads a passage from one of Doe's journals, telling how he vomited when a man tried to speak to him on the subway.  Along with the conversation in the car at the end of the film, Doe is presented as having a deep hatred for humanity, how he believes his murders will enlighten them as to what they have become.  Fincher is able to achieve this character's motive with a handful of scenes, and that's all he needed to add to "Dragon Tattoo," just a couple more scenes to flesh out the characters of Gottfried and Martin.  Maybe there was more detail given in Stieg Larsson's novel, and even if it was too much information to fit in a film, it could have been synthesized into at least one scene.  Maybe Martin could have described the influence of learning of his Father's murders when he was a young man, or maybe these crimes were not isolated to their family but were a reflection of their society in general.  Whatever the reason, it probably would have been better than what the film ended up with.              

Adding a Scene to "An Education"

     Lone Scherfig's "An Education" follows a young High School student named Jenny, who is frustrated with the limitations of living in 1961 North London.  Even though she is planning to attend Oxford, she is already aware of her limited vocational options when she graduates.  Even with a degree from a prestigious University, the gender inequality in England during this time strongly inhibits its female population.  The best moments in the film are those with Jenny arguing for her need of a new life, such as when she confronts her teacher, Miss Stubbs, about the necessity of going to college when she is just going to end up "bored" for the rest of her life.  Jenny understands her future could look very similar to Miss Stubbs' life, a well educated woman teaching High School English, reading essays about a student's pony.  The prospect of this does not satisfy Jenny, who prefers the exciting atmosphere of Paris, with the films of the French New Wave, sitting in cafe's listening to Jazz, seeing great artwork in the city's many museums and galleries, this is the life she desires.   When she meets David, a man in his mid-thirties who shares her interest in this new Parisian culture, he takes her to Paris, fulfilling what was once seen as an unachievable dream.
     One would believe an important moment like Jenny finally visiting Paris would garner a lot of attention from the filmmakers.  However, all we get is a montage of Jenny and David spending a romantic evening by the Seine, and a scene where she stands on the hotel balcony smoking a cigarette after she and David had just had sex.  The Paris material is only a few minutes in length, and then we're back in London, with Jenny fawning over the great films she had seen, Jazz she had listened to.  Since we didn't actually see her having these experiences, we have to take her word for it.  What is so disappointing about the limited scenes in Paris and the lack of specific references is how the film is otherwise filled with detailed scenes, such as the conversations between Jenny, Miss Stubbs, and her parents.  The film takes a lot of care in building not only the characters but the society they live in.  I'm not arguing for long takes discussing the meaning of Francois Truffaut's films, but at least one scene to provide a context for why Jenny loves Paris so much.
     A suggestion for a scene that could have worked, have Jenny and David in a movie theater watching Jean-Luc Godard's "Vivre Sa Vie."  Godard's film is similar to "An Education" in its depiction of a young woman restricted by society.  However, the main character, Nana, is forced into prostitution, which is a tad different from Jenny's situation.  Getting back to the hypothetical scene, there is a moment in "Vivre Sa Vie" when Nana herself is in a movie theater, watching the 1928 silent film "The Passion of Joan of Arc."  Godard cuts from a profile shot of Joan of Arc to a profile shot of Nana, watching the film in tears.  Scherfig could have taken this one step further, cutting from Joan of Arc to Nana, then to Jenny watching this scene, a cinematic dialogue between the three films.  While "An Education" is a very good film, referencing a specific French film would have added greatly to the already detailed world created by Scherfig.  There is the slight problem of "Vivre Sa Vie" being released in 1962 and "An Education" taking place in 1961, but that's just a technicality.

I almost missed "The Decalogue"

     In 1989, Polish Director Krzysztof Kieślowski released a ten part series titled "The Decalogue."  At an hour long each, the episodes are a modern interpretation of the "Ten Commandments."  The third episode is based on the Commandment, "Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy." We are introduced to a taxi driver named Janusz, who plans to spend Christmas Eve with his wife and two children.  While the family attends Christmas Eve mass, he runs into Ewa, his ex-lover whom he had an affair with three years prior.  Later that night, Ewa asks Janusz to help look for her missing husband.  They drive all over the city, with no luck.  As the film goes on, it becomes excruciatingly evident her husband is not missing, and she must be trying to seduce Janusz to rekindle their past relationship and convince him to leave his family.  Her intentions, or at least what we assume them to be, are extremely frustrating.  She is portrayed as a selfish, unsympathetic character who doesn't want to let her ex-lover go.
     However, this perception of Ewa quickly changes when she reveals the real reason she has called upon Janusz that evening.  She admits her husband is not missing, in fact, he divorced her shortly after he discovered her affair with Janusz.  He is now re-married, and while he and her ex-lover now enjoy life with their new families, she has not been so fortunate.  Three years later, she is still alone, and she couldn't bare to spend Christmas Eve by herself, which is why she lied to Janusz, not to start up their affair again, but to simply have someone to spend the holiday with.  She is now a completely sympathetic character, one who has had to watch others move on with their lives while she is still struggling to find happiness of her own.  Just before this revelation, I was so frustrated with her character that I seriously considered turning off the film.  Thankfully, I stuck with it, leaving me incredibly empathetic for Ewa and her desire to be rid of her loneliness.  Of the ten installments of "The Decalogue," this is the one that had the greatest impact because of how drastically my opinion was changed over the course of the film.  Now, whenever I think of giving up on a film, I think of the third episode of "The Decalogue," and what I could be missing.

"Seven Samurai" and Me

     At the age of nine or ten years old, when my family and I were visiting my Grandmother at a local retirement home, my sister and I were watching television in her bedroom, my sister on our Grandmother's bed and I laying on the floor with a pillow supporting my head.  As I was flipping through the channels, I randomly landed on PBS (maybe), just as the station announced that Akira Kurosawa's "Seven Samurai" was about to begin.  At that moment, our Dad appeared in the doorway, saying something to the effect of, "Wow, this is a classic."  So we decided to watch, and for some reason my Dad was assigned the task of reading the subtitles out loud.  I quickly became fascinated with the film, the villagers desperately seeking protection, the search for each Samurai, and especially Toshiro Mifune's character, Kikuchiyo, the most entertaining and interesting member of the group. 
     However, a problem soon emerged with this viewing experience.  The station was airing the film in its entirety, with no commercial breaks.  Since "Seven Samurai" is three and a half hours long, this meant my Dad would be reading subtitles for quite a long time.  Much to my dismay, after about two and a half hours, my Dad had had enough, and left.  I tried to finish the movie by reading the subtitles on my own, but I couldn't keep up.  Deeply frustrated, I gave up and turned off the television.  Years later, when I finally finished the entire film, the climactic battle scene at the end left me exhilarated at first, but my excitement soon turned to bitterness as I recalled my Dad's abandonment of the film years earlier.  There are many ways to attribute greatness to a film, but it's hard to think of a better conformation of a movie's lasting quality than when it holds the attention of a young boy and leaves him distraught when his Father quits reading the subtitles for him.
(P.S.  Love you Dad) 
           

"The Edge of Heaven:" What Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu could learn

     In the films of director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, particularly "Amores Perros" and "Babel," there is a recurring theme told through multiple storylines of how the lives of different people intersect, leading to coincidences that can dramatically alter these people's lives.  The problem with Inarritu's use of coincidence is not the amount of damage it causes to his characters, or how it leaves the audience acutely aware of the "freak accident" element of the events, but that there is no satisfying resolution to these events.  We are not left wondering how the characters can work through these tragic circumstances, but how they didn't have to happen in the first place, and what is the point of subjecting us to such depressing material.
     Fatih Akin's film, "The Edge of Heaven," provides a counter argument to Inarritu's method.  Like Inarritu's films, "The Edge of Heaven" has a multi-narrative plot involving characters in Germany and Turkey.  In one the main storylines, a young German woman named Lotte befriends a young Turkish woman named Ayten, a political activist who has just fled Turkey for Germany.  Lotte's mother, Susanne, does not approve of her daughter's friendship with Ayten, who she believes is too dangerous.  When Ayten is arrested and sent back to Istanbul, Lotte follows with the hope of freeing her.  After Lotte retrieves a handgun requested by Ayten, Lotte's bag, with the gun inside, is stolen by group of young boys.  When Lotte catches up with the boys as they are looking at the gun, she is shot and killed when one of the boys points the gun at her.
     Susanne travels to Istanbul to claim Lotte's body, and there is a scene where she in a room, crying hysterically over the loss of her child.  After reading Lotte's diary, Susanne realizes how much her daughter cared for Ayten.  When she visits Ayten in prison, Ayten is sobbing over her friends death, how Lotte would not have been in that situation if it wasn't for her.  Susanne then consoles Ayten, reassuring her it was not her fault.  Yes, it was a tragedy what happened to Lotte, but Susanne knows how much she loved Ayten, and it was Lotte's decision to be there.  Susanne doesn't blame Ayten for her daughter's death, and she won't let anger take the place of her grief.  Unlike Inarritu, Akin's characters accept tragic coincidences for what they are, focusing instead on how they can move forward with their lives.              
          

"A Prophet" and "The Long Good Friday"

     On the surface, Jacques Audiard's "A Prophet" looks like a standard prison/mafia film of a young man who works his way up the ranks to ultimately achieve power.  However, Audiard has crafted a film that serves as an allegory for the current population shift taking place not only in France, but across Western Europe.  This change is the growing Muslim population, and "A Prophet" introduces its main character, Malik, a young Franco-Arab who has been recently sentenced to a French Prison.  He quickly learns of the power structure among the inmates, which belongs to the incarcerated members of the Corsican Mafia.  The leader of the group, Cesar, allows Malik to join them after he has killed an inmate upon Cesar's request.  As Malik assimilates with the Corsicans, gaining their trust, it becomes evident how small the group the Corsicans are, that they are outnumbered by the other ethnic groups in the prison, including the Muslim inmates.  Malik then uses this to his advantage, gaining the trust and respect of his fellow Muslim prisoners.  By the end of the film, when all the power within the prison has officially changed, Cesar is left with nothing, and when he tries to confront Malik in the prison yard, he is shoved to the ground by the members of Malik's group.
     Another film which has a story of social change told through organized crime is John Mackenzie's 1980 release, "The Long Good Friday," whose plot is told from the point of view of a character similar to Cesar's in "A Prophet," an established mob boss who is blindsided by the changing times.  That character is Harold Shand, the leader of the London mob.  In the middle of finalizing a deal with American investors, when a member of his group is killed, he believes it is a rival mob trying to usurp his power.  When Harold is lead to the Afro-Caribbean neighborhood of Brixton to search for answers, we are given the first indication that he is not familiar or comfortable with the changing population of certain parts of London.  When it is revealed that the group attacking Harold's organization is the IRA, he believes he can take care of the situation like he normally would, killing one of their leaders to send a message.  Unaware of the political motivations of the IRA, Harold is captured, and as the camera focuses on him in the backseat of the car, his face shows a look not just of anger, but also bewilderment.  Throughout the film, he is very nostalgic about "old London."  But in the end, like Cesar in "A Prophet," Harold does not understand the new world he lives in, and is soon left behind.         

Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn) 2011

     As I was walking out of the theater after watching Nicolas Winding Refn's "Drive," I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.  While there were many good scenes, such as the getaway scene at the beginning, the film as a whole felt very thin, as if I missed something.  However, as I was driving on Brea Blvd. later that night, a U2 song called "Sometimes you can't make it on your own" came on the radio, which included a chorus with Bono and the Edge singing in falsetto.  At that moment, heading south on Brea Blvd., listening to this dopey song, it felt like a scene from "Drive."  I was instantly reminded of the numerous shots of the film's star, Ryan Gosling, driving along the streets of Los Angeles at night, the way the street lamps were lit and how the dashboard lights reflected off Gosling, all while cheesy synthpop played on the film's soundtrack.
     Now I understood what the movie was trying to do.  The director had created an atmosphere, a sense of locale that gives the audience a more sensory enjoyment of the film, such as when in a similar location, you are reminded of that specific film.  Consider the opening scene of Woody Allen's "Manhattan," with the borough's skyline filmed in black and white with Gershwin on the soundtrack.  There are probably many people who have Gershwin playing in their heads while crossing the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan. 
     Another way to describe this sensation is how one can reminisce about a song.  There are some songs I associate with a specific time and place, such as sitting in my apartment listening to Tom Waits' "Cold, Cold Ground" while attending Humboldt State University, looking out my window on a rainy night, surrounded by redwoods.  Whenever I here that song, I think of that place, the smell of the damp, cold air, and whenever I find myself in similar surroundings, Waits' song will be playing in my head.  That's the kind of impact "Drive" had on me as I drove away from the theater.  I had such an assured sense of the environment created by the film, I could go beyond the specific location and music, free to add my own associations.  Will this same feeling happen every time I drive around at night?  Probably not.  Did I wish I had that U2 song on my ipod so I could put in on repeat and continue driving that night down Harbor to the 91 west, on my way to the 110 north toward downtown LA?  Yes.  So whenever I here "Sometimes you can't make it on your own," I will think of "Drive" and going down Brea Blvd. (and Ryan Gosling's jeans).