Tiny Audience

Lena Dunham, a 23—year–old filmmaker from New York who has a degree in film studies from Oberlin, plays Aura, a 22–year–old Oberlin grad with a “useless” film studies degree, in Lena Dunham’s first feature as a director, “Tiny Furniture,” written by: Lena Dunham.

“Tiny Furniture” is the story of Aura and her attempt, immediately post–college, to figure out what she is going to do with herself. Aura returns home to New York City after graduation. She moves back into her mom’s apartment. At a party, she re–connects with a childhood friend and meets an aspiring young filmmaker who, like Aura, is a modestly successful YouTube–star. As she unsuccessfully tries to go out with the filmmaker, she gets a job as a day hostess at a restaurant where she meets a “hot” cook. While trying to go out with either of these guys, Aura is also trying to figure out her new place within her family. Her mother, a successful fine-art photographer, and sister, a brilliant high school junior, find the balance of their lives thrown off by the return of Aura.

The subgenre of movies concerned with post–college malaise (Kicking and Screaming, St. Elmo’s Fire) has a tendency toward self–pity that can only be allayed by self-parody. A new movie in that genre by and about an upper–class young woman from TriBeCa who just graduated from college would seem, at first glance, to be destined to wallow in disgusting amounts of self-pity (and not –parody).

“Tiny Furniture” doesn’t. The movie is remarkably witty and wordy. Dunham, who wrote the script, is very funny, able to find humor anywhere; for example, the best running joke in the film has to do with the white cabinets in Aura’s mom’s apartment. At first, the word–heavy humor and upper–class setting of the movie reminded me of the screwball comedies of the 30s and 40s. Screwball comedies were a result of the Great Depression; they offered to the movie–going masses a glimpse into the silly, absurd lives of the very, very rich. Their characters were often witty and wealthy but unable to function outside of their limited world. “Tiny Furniture,” made in the aftermath of the economic crisis, about an upper–class young woman whose mother is a celebrity in the art world, is a lot like the screwball comedy in the inaccessibility of the world it portrays to most Americans and its style of humor.

However, there are important differences between “Tiny Furniture” and a screwball comedy like “The Philadelphia Story.” Screwball comedies were made by studios whose audiences would inevitably consist of all manners of movie-going Americans. They had all–star casts and nation–wide distribution. These films showed remarkable class–consciousness, even by today’s standards. The finest screwball comedies were also great social commentaries that would be seen by a huge audience in an economic depression.

“Tiny Furniture,” on the other hand, is destined for a small, niche audience. Its similarities to screwball don’t survive examination. Although it’s style of humor and the economic situation surrounding its production recall screwball comedies, “Tiny Furniture” has neither the social consciousness nor general upbeat feeling of a screwball comedy. On the contrary, one of its strengths is the amount of pain and anxiety it conveys behind all the humor.

The movie won the narrative film prize at the SXSW festival last year, which enabled it to get modest distribution, but it will not be shown in mega–cinemas across the country. After seeing it, I get the feeling that “Tiny Furniture” is the type of movie whose audience will know in advance whether or not they would like it. It takes place in the New York art world, an exotic place by most people’s standards. Yet, because it is her home, Ms. Dunham treats that world with a familiarity that would alienate most. The movie is about a young woman who just graduated from a liberal arts college and doesn’t know what to do with herself; once again, I don’t see that this would appeal (or even attempts to appeal) to a wide audience.

However, limited appeal doesn’t make it a bad movie. There are a lot of things I liked about “Tiny Furniture.” I liked how Aura, the main character, is not a typical Hollywood-beauty; rather, she looks like a real person and is much easier to believe. I liked how Aura was totally confused about what to do with her life. Even though I’m only a freshman (and have comparatively low general–life–anxiety, I imagine), I can easily relate to Aura’s confusion and uncertainty about entering the “real world.”  I liked how the ending of the movie was boldly unsatisfactory; Aura is an asshole.

In the end, though, “Tiny Furniture” is not a “great film.” It’s the kind of movie that could work just as well as a play or a TV show; the story is not told in a cinematically interesting way. It would be really arrogant and pretentious to call it a bad movie for this “flaw,” though. It’s a really good movie, and I liked it.

La Dolce Vita

I just watched Fellini’s La Dolce Vita again, the first time in a few years. It’s amazing how much an impression the movie made on me the first time around without my even noticing it. I may have been too young to really understand it as a freshman in high school (and I may still be too young for such a desperate work), but as I watched it, the events and characters came back to my mind with astonishing clarity. I recall the poignant episode where Marcello, the progressively-more-disillusioned protagonist, encounters his father in Rome. The two share a night on the town, and Marcello is surprised that his father can take so much pleasure in the lifestyle that Marcello has come to see as vapid. The episode comes at a point where we can still hope for Marcello, who has just been offered a job that will allow him more time to write the novel he has been working on. Fellini extinguishes the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, however, when Marcello’s father’s night ends in sickness, too-much-fun. The movie is 3 hours and has no plot; more proof that the more “boring” a work, the more rewarding, the more important it can be.

happy birthday, Grace Kelly

the woman who has one hearts over and over again, including that of Alfred Hitchcock, was born today. Though she is dead, Graker and Tandy commemorate this beautiful woman for her roles on screen. Here’s a little clip:

 

 

roman polanski: god of carnage, and a bit about wes anderson’s new project.

So, I’ve been up late tonight, unable to sleep, as usual on a thursday evening. Usually these nights end with no success. Yet tonight was quite a different night. As I was browsing IMDB, i stumbled upon John C. Reily’s page and saw something interesting listed in his most recent films. He is set to be in a film adaptation of the famed Yasmina Reza play God of Carnage. This was most exciting information indeed. As soon as I saw it, i knew I needed to come on here and tell all of you (i’m sure the audience is quite small). 

So, I clicked on the page, oh so very curious as to what was going on with this film. It just so happened that not only is John C. Reily (who is playing Michael in the film), but director Roman Polanski, who wowed audiences earlier this year with his return Ghost Writer (an absolutely fantastic piece of cinema and Polanski’s best since Chinatown). This, excited me even more. And then I looked at the rest of the cast.

Kate Winslet is to play Annete, Jodie Foster is playing Veronica and that oh-so-lovable Nazi Christoph Waltz who charmed us into giving him an Oscar is to play Alan. Well, good god, i thought to myself. This will be something to look forward to. If Polanski (who co-wrote the screenplay with Reza) can pull it off and this cast can really tear it up on screen, this could potentially be one of the best films of this new decade. Now, I understand that is saying quite a lot, but were are looking at a brute ensemble of folks here. Imagine all of these people coming together to create this film explosion. God of Carnage itself is such an amazing piece, however, the question will still remain: can they pull it off on screen? (It’s also a bit ironic that Polanski is Directing this movie, all things considered…)

Sometimes it is difficult to put a play into a cinematic perspective. So many times, the film versions fail to do any justice to the stage version because the play was really meant for the stage and not the silver screen. I still give hope, considering Reza and Polanski are collaborating on the screenplay. Perhaps it will become a completely different version than what we’ve seen. I’m going to keep my hopes up for this one and you certainly should too. This is exciting.

the film is at the moment in “pre production” and is set to release in 2012

In other interesting news, Wes Anderson has something new in the works. It’s a sixties-esque film called Moon Rise Kingdom. Not much has been said about a plot, but the cast is pretty wild. Bill Murray is, of course, listed to be in it. But the interesting ones have got to be Edward Norton, Tilda Swinton, Frances McDormand (I wonder how the Coen Brothers feel about that) and Bruce Willis. Bruce Willis? Hmmm, Anderson has been known to really bring out the best in people. We’ll just have to see how this one goes. – my thanks for this one to Josh Jaeger and the Criterion Collection for the info on this one.

Lynch’s Lineage

Jacob writes about new movies, for the most part; I get to write about classics. So David Lynch, a man whose latest feature came out in 2006, ought to be Jacob’s terrain- why am I writing about him?

I have a sneaking suspicion that Lynch may be done with features. Although he produced Werner Herzog’s My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? just last year, most of his creative activities in the past decade have not been in the realm of commercial cinema (and does Herzog’s film even fit that description?); he wrote a book about transcendental meditation, acted in a voice role on The Cleveland Show, and made various animation projects, most of them on his website. The two films he has made since 2000 that could be categorized as “commercial cinema,” Mulholland Dr. and Inland Empire,  definitely tested the boundaries of that term.

Regardless of whether or not Lynch’s traditional oeuvre is complete, it is undoubtedly classic as it exists today. But Lynch’s movies, starting with Eraserhead, have all seemed anomalous when compared to their contemporaries; they exist in contemporary Hollywood cinema in the same way that three dead cats and a mutant dwarf exist in a Peanuts Sunday-morning comic strip.

So, to some, it might be surprising to learn just how traditional David Lynch’s influences are. Take the following scene in Blue Velvet; Jeffrey has just told Sandy what he learned about Dorothy Vallens by hiding in her closet and spying on her. Against Sandy’s wishes, Jeffrey, drawn to the new world he has discovered, decides to return to Dorothy’s apartment the following night. As he climbs the stairs to her floor, he stops. For a moment, we are not sure if he will continue. But we, too, are perversely drawn to the underworld Jeffrey discovered; after a moment’s pause, and in compliance with the desire of the audience, Jeffrey continues. Lynch forces the audience to participate in what we know to be a very dangerous and, ultimately, irrevocable decision.

Undoubtedly this is brilliant cinema. But it is not without precedent. An important influence for Lynch is Alfred Hitchcock, a director whose eye for revealing details found its way into Lynch’s strange imagination. In Hitchcock’s Psycho, there is an uncannily similar scene to the one described above. Norman Bates has just killed Janet Leigh’s character and must dispose of her body and belongings. He puts her corpse in her car and pushes it into the lake behind the Bates Motel. But, as the car slowly rolls into the lake, it pauses for a moment; the audience, motivated by our lurid sensibilities, wills the car to continue sink. Hitchcock makes us complicit in Bates’ crime in the exact same way that Lynch made us complicit in Jeffrey’s descent.

This is not to suggest that Lynch is stealing from Hitchcock; I only want to point out that some of the techniques used by Lynch to disturbing effect are rooted in the classical cinematic tradition in which he appears to be such an anomaly. Long live the classic cinema!

the roaring, goring 21st century

 

In America there are no gladiators, there is no form of public execution and violence by the state is typically seen as wrong. Only horror might be gained from watching a man slaughtered. Nevertheless, violence still gives the people some form of pleasure. Audiences enjoy, no matter how much they might try dispute it, watching someone die. These fictional stories that litter the silver screen and the television, these action packed flicks and these “torture porns”, these are the things modern man derives a disgusting and powerful excitement from. There is a vast difference between the tragedy of the Greeks and the Tragedy of Seneca, the only Roman tragedian. The Greeks see tragedy (and the violence included) as a way bringing about catharsis and emotional connection, but Seneca suggests the audience should detach itself from the characters and seemingly enjoy the wicked nature of man. Thus, William Calder is right when he states that we are not Greek, but “Roman in our boredom.” Although the audience is not watching real people being killed like gladiators, but they are taking joy out of fictional, and sometimes extremely gruesome, depictions of death.

What Calder does in his essay “The Rediscovery of Seneca Tragicus at the end of the XXth Century” is examine where the modern parallel of Seneca’s Stoic poetry. Being the stoic that he was, Seneca wrote in a way that we might look at as difficult. The whole idea of emotional “detachment” that stoics based themselves in might seem to people now a bit cruel and inhuman, yet some don’t focus on how violence excites them. In Seneca’s Thyestes, the character of Atreus is almost pure evil in his plot to kill his brother Thyestes’ sons and feed them to him. It’s a vile and disturbing act, but Atreus completes it without a single pang of regret or remorse. He has his complete detachment and is prepared to commit the scelus ultimum (“ultimate crime” as noted by Calder 78). Calder speaks in the essay of those who complete this and how much joy they get from doing so. He brings up the British poet Julian Grenfall. Grenfall was a very well educated man, yet when he went to war he took pure pleasure in being a marksman. He wrote of how it was “all the best fun I ever dreamed of”. Atreus is quite like Grenfall in his actions, he gathers pure joy in committing this despicable act and never looks back on it. Those could look at Atreus and feel no connection because he is a stoic’s man, one who separates himself from emotion, but if they look another character in recent entertainment that does the opposite for them, they might see Seneca’s reasoning.

To take a glance at Jonathan Demme’s Hannibal Lecter from his film Silence of the Lambs (1991) would be one example. Hannibal is a serial killer, not to mention he also enjoys eating the flesh of his human victims as well. He kills people because he grasps the pleasure of doing so, the making-a-meal-out-of-them gives him even more joy to work with. He is completely mad, but also everything the modern audiences wants to see. For some reason, within the past 30, 40, maybe 100 years entertainment has taken a huge leap into feeding the modern viewers lust for violence. Although Demme himself makes a Greek argument, he makes his point by giving the viewer Lecter to feed off of. Though we can condemn the acts of Hannibal, he is still loved and accepted for his personality. His charisma draws the audience in and his words and speech of his disturbing acts bestow entertainment in people. He commits this scelus ultimum and explores every bit of the ultimate crime in his actions. In this sense, he is a modern Stoic as Atreus is an ancient one and one that audience adore.

Unlike Hannibal, however, Atreus gives himself the freedom not just from joy, but revenge. Seneca delves into a lot of what Calder calls “libertas” or “freedom from dependance on anything.” (77) There is no obstacle barring Atreus’ on his road to revenge. He will get what he wants and he has given himself the freedom to do so. Once his decision is made, the pleasure in possibly doing so keeps him from backing down. He’ll kill his brother for stealing his wife and taking the crown. Even when his brother Thyestes offers to give up the crown, Atreus still wishes to mutilate his sons and feed them to him. He doesn’t let a single thing hold him back. He is quite firmly prepared for what he is going to do. Atreus afterwards revels in the Libertas that he had to be able to watch his brother die inside. “Crime should have a limit/when you commit a crime,/not when you avenge it.” Atreus says to his brother in lines 1495-97. He fuels himself, as if from the power of the furies, and takes aim at avenging his own perturbed pride.

And no matter the disgust, revenge is still to this day a part of human nature. There are moments in which every human feels the need to enact revenge, but most wouldn’t dream of it. So, instead, there are characters in cinema that do it for them. Directer Quentin Tarantino who says, “Violence is one of the most fun things to watch!” is one man who isn’t afraid to explore extreme, unforgiving violence. His two-part film Kill Bill tells the story of a woman “The Bride” out for vengeance and a multitude of blood. After her wedding was ruined by a group who came in and slaughtered everyone in the church and left The Bride for dead, she has won her own libertas. Just like Atreus, The Bride is out for vengeance and her bloodlust is stronger than anybody else’s. And for most, it is enjoyable to watch her slaughter those who destroyed her lives, every kill yanks at the excited butterfly in the stomach of the modern audience. Is there something wrong with that? No, it’s just pure human nature. Yet, so many denounce Seneca because of his details. They can’t grasp why a man would write about such an evil character. Atreus wanted revenge just as much as the bride did. Sure, he killed his brother’s children and fed them to him, which might still disgust people today (but only if it was a true story), but they still seek that vengeance. It is extremely rare these days that the Greek theory is found on the screen and in the TV. Most popular entertainment takes a look at how just how much joy one can derive from gore and damnation. So why just watch and not do? Its because most choose to ignore their bloodlust and repress it, which is a very good thing, no doubt. Some part of them might also click if they actually took a life, the grief of conscience just wouldn’t allow such a thing. But when boredom strikes, the roman in them comes out.

There are also those who would argue that the Greeks are wrong. In his “loosely based off real events” film My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?, Werner Herzog explores Calder’s idea of the Topsy-Turvy World or “Die verkehrte Welt” in which the world is built primarily on chaos (79). Herzog shows the character of Brad McCullum, a man who, after a traumatic white water rafting trip, pushes himself into an intense psychosis. His complete loss of reality forces him into believing he is Orestes from the Greek poet Sophocles’ tragedy. This depravity causes Brad to murder his mother who he thinks to be some form of Clytemnestra in the flesh. Yet, Herzog is not agreeing with the Greeks in this sense. He is fishing in this chaotic, Roman world that has pushed Brad into committing the heinous crime. He has never been the filmmaker to discuss the beauty of the world and always sees it as nihilistic and uncaring. Thus, the nature of human beings is a mirror of the chaos of the world.

Herzog is saying that there is no exoneration for what he has done, despite what the Greeks Aeschylus and Sophocles would have you believe. People are trailed by the deeds of those before them and cannot easily escape the judgement that is to come. Brad, unlike the famed Orestes in Greek tragedy, is not given mercy for the crime he has committed. Only more chaos will attack him, and potentially those who follow him, for what he has done. “Open your eyes, look! This is the river, this is reality” Brad says to his white water rafting partners, another way of Herzog to state natural chaos. The film is a perfect exploration of this Topsy-turvy World and is a stage for what is true in life. There are no gods that can end the torture and pain, there are only the furies that keep things going the way they are. This beautiful film examines the continuum of chaos and the cycle of natural insanity when a young boy (who resembles Brad himself) grabs a basketball that was left in the tree by Brad. Herzog again emphasizes this idea of king chaos and makes the audience see the pain that the natural way of things causes.

In this whole aspect, Calder is right. Humans are more roman, but only “in our boredom”. Though there are those who entertain with psychos and killers and vengeful spirits, there are still those who entertain us in a Greek fashion. Filmmakers like Clint Eastwood and Sam Mendes explore the effect of the chaotic world in a way that makes people feel less naive. They examine the goodness of mankind and the acquittal and kindness of natural order. However, those artists are few and far between. Anymore, the audience must accept Herzog’s modern thesis on mankind and nature. To look at the top ten box office hits is to examine the popularity of absurd and violent films, to explore that which makes audiences cringe with gratification. It is a sad belief, yet it is still true. The modern viewer is falling apart and his/her intelligent viewpoint is constantly wavering due to this psychotic entertainment. They no longer wish to balance themselves out with something that would make them reconsider this topsy-turvy world, only they wish to free their vengeful demons and find their own pure ultimate crime in the actions of those characters on screen.

“It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.” – Gandhi.

Bits of Wisdom (i)

“Cinema should be a means of exploring the most complex problems of our time, as vital as those which for centuries have been the subject of literature, music and painting. It is only a question of searching, each time searching out afresh the path, the channel, to be followed by cinema. I am convinced that for any one of us our film-making will turn out to be a fruitless and hopeless affair if we fail to grasp precisely and unequivocally the specific character of cinema, and if we fail to find in ourselves our own key to it.”

-Andrei Tarkovsky

La Notte

Watch this clip from La Notte, the second film in Michelangelo Antonioni’s trilogy about ennui and modern life; I also consider it Antonioni’s best film (although I’m not sure I like it as much as Blow-Up). You don’t need subtitles to be able to see the way the erotic sensuality is so masterfully evoked in opposition to the cold impersonality of the central couple’s (played by Marcello Mastroianni and Jeanne Moreau) relationship.

Notice the incredible first shot; Antonioni takes us through three different angles in one shot, each one framing perfectly and appropriately the action that is happening onscreen. This shot also shows the influence of Bresson, a filmmaker whose spare and rigid (but incredibly beautiful and effective) obviously influenced Antonioni. The characteristic “Bresson shot” takes the viewer through at least two different angles in a single shot subtly, so that it is an almost imperceptible move to the viewer, no matter how big it actually is. The difference is that Antonioni’s three-in-one is much more stylized than any shot in Bresson, and his style is just as effective as Bresson’s.

Not that that’s the only great shot in the sequence. Watch Jeanne Moreau compare herself to the dancer, look down and dance with her fingers, pitifully imitate eroticism, and then watch her husband’s response- all in one amazing shot!

More On Michelangelo Antonioni and La Notte

http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/directors/02/antonioni.html – from Senses of Cinema, an awesome online movie website

http://www.jonathanrosenbaum.com/?p=22257 – Jonathan Rosenbaum on, among others, La Notte (and L’Eclisee, the next film in Antonioni’s trilgoy and, according to Rosenbaum, his best, although I may disagree).

Bresson’s L’Argent

Bresson’s final film, L’Argent, tells the story of the corrupting effects of money on three main characters. Based on a story by Tolstoy, it recounts through a parallel structure how money compromises and displaces the moral values that might otherwise guide the characters. An early sequence essentially defines the role of money in the film and establishes the main character, Yvon, and money’s effects on him.

The story shows how a chain of events set off by the passing of a single counterfeit bill leads to the demise of three characters; one is full of guilt, two end up in prison and one of the two who goes to prison, Yvon, becomes an axe murderer. An early sequence in the film goes a long way toward defining the violent nature of Yvon and the corrupting influence of money. The sequence takes place before the audience knows anything about Yvon besides his job, an oil deliveryman. After accepting counterfeit money from a photo shop to which he has delivered oil, Yvon goes to a café and attempts to pay for his drink with the counterfeit money. The waiter sees that the bill is counterfeit and accuses Yvon of being a counterfeiter, at which point Yvon pushes the waiter to the floor.

Although the sequence lasts 42 seconds from 8:34 to 9:16, it encapsulates essential elements of Yvon’s character and the role of money in the film. The first shot, coming at 8:34 in the film, shows the waiter accepting Yvon’s bills and realizing that they are counterfeit. The shot is a wide shot at an acute angle showing Yvon sitting at his table while the waiter stands in the left side of the frame. The next shot is a detail of the counterfeit money being examined by the waiter. By this time, the waiter has accused Yvon of being a counterfeiter in the dialogue. The third shot is the same as the first; this time, though, Yvon rises from the table, a look of blank defiance on his face; he has been accused of passing counterfeit money. The shot cuts, on the sound of Yvon grabbing the waiter’s coat, to a detail of Yvon’s hand holding the waiter’s coat and pushing the waiter down. We then see, in the same shot, Yvon’s open palm. The next shot cuts on the sound of the waiter falling down and knocking over a table. We see the table wobble and tip over as Yvon’s feet stand in the frame.

The sequence comes before the audience knows anything about the character of Yvon. By placing it so early in the development of Yvon, Bresson highlights his abrupt, violent nature. The look on Yvon’s face as he stands to confront the waiter shows a pride that has obviously been hurt by the waiter’s accusation. Typical of the Bressonian style, the violence occurs off screen and the audience is forced to infer that Yvon has committed the act. Yvon’s immediate resort to violence (after minimal provocation) foreshadows his shameless series of murders in the final section of the film. Up to this point, and even within this sequence, Yvon gives the impression of passivity; all he has done so far is accept money from Lucien and deliver oil. All of the shots of Yvon are static, lacking the subtle camera movements one associates with the films of Bresson. Even within the sequence, all we see Yvon do is stand up. The abruptness of the violence to which Yvon resorts illuminates the violent aspect of his otherwise passive character that will recur periodically throughout the film.

The remarkable economy of the sequence (a total of 5 shots) showcases Bresson’s mastery of the use of sound. In his collection of aphorisms about filmmaking, Notes on the Cinematography, Bresson expresses his ideas about the use of sound: “When a sound can replace an image, cut the image or neutralize it. The ear goes more towards the within, the eye towards the outer,” (Bresson 61). In this sequence, Bresson has effectively neutralized all the images; the soundtrack takes over, informing the audience of the action and engaging the imagination of the audience. Most of the cutting in the scene is on the sound; the sound bridges the gap between the two cuts.  The fall of the waiter is not seen onscreen; rather, it is implied in the soundtrack. The neutralization of the images lends itself to an understanding of Yvon as a passive character, while the soundtrack highlights Yvon’s violence. All the images showing Yvon’s face are static, lacking the dynamism and movement (within the frame) characteristic of the close-ups. On the other hand, the images and sounds of violence are disembodied; they exclude the bodies and faces of the characters involved in the violence they portray.

Bresson’s framing in this sequence is of utmost importance. As Tony Pipolo points out, this sequence provides the only exception to the standard framing of monetary exchanges in the film: “Instead of a close-up of hands engaged, Yvon is seated as the waiter stands over him rejecting bill after bill. Ironically, it is the only honest exchange in the series since Yvon is unaware that the bills are phony,” (Pipolo 339). The wide frame serves to humanize the exchange. Except for this shot, every shot of monetary exchange shows two hands in close-up. By placing the hands in close-up, Bresson objectifies them and effectively cuts them off from the humans to whom they belong. The typical framing reduces hands to objects involved in an inhuman exchange; it is as if money and greed, not human interaction, drive these exchanges. The wide framing of the first shot of the sequence implies Yvon’s integrity because it defies the pattern of objectification, disconnection and dehumanization set up by the series of exchange shots throughout the film.

However, the progression of the sequence reveals that Yvon is truly using counterfeit bills. This fact leads to the confrontation and attack of the waiter, another shot that is brilliantly framed to reveal a great deal of information in as little space and time as possible. The shot in question shows Yvon’s hand grab the waiter’s coat, push the waiter down and then open. All that the audience sees is the movement of Yvon’s hand; the waiter’s fall is inferred from the soundtrack. What is remarkable about the shot is the space it occupies. The framing of this shot is usually reserved for monetary exchanges; the use of this framing has already set up a pattern of hands dubiously exchanging money (Pipolo 339). In each previous incarnation of this framing, counterfeit money has been knowingly exchanged; except for this shot, Bresson reserves this space for the commission of theft and fraud. Bresson uses this shot both to establish Yvon’s penchant for violence and to comment on the nature of money. By locating violence in the same space that is usually reserved for fraud, Bresson implies the violent ramifications of such fraud. Bresson gives this frame significant meaning because of its relationship to other shots in the film. This is truly Bresson’s example of a “cinematographer’s film where the images, like the words in a dictionary, have no power and value except through their position and relation,” (Bresson 21). The shot of Yvon’s hand pushing down the waiter gains power because of its explicit, if not obvious, relationship to a significant series of similar shots in the film. Bresson uses the close-up of hands to lend a sense of inevitability to the actions. By objectifying Yvon’s hand and disconnecting it from his body, Bresson implies that forces other than those controlled by Yvon himself are at work. Because money is usually what drives the action in this framing, Bresson creates a dark association of violence with money that illuminates Yvon’s murderous rampages near the end of the film.

A final important piece of information set up by the framing of the sequence is the class relationship set up by money. By placing all exchanges of money within the same frame, Bresson is saying something about the effects of money on each different class. The film’s three main characters all come from different class backgrounds. Norbert comes from the established upper class, Lucien is bourgeois and Yvon is working class. However, their class backgrounds do not change the pervasive effects money has on them. Each character is drawn into the cycle of fraud caused by money regardless of their class. Bresson underlines this by placing all fraudulent monetary exchanges in the same limited space. Showing us only the hands of the characters and the bills passing between them, we can hardly determine their class by the visual information in the frame. Bresson resists the easy justification of fraud and theft by the lower classes because his frame does not discriminate among the classes; there is no difference based on class when fraud is involved. Bresson’s rigorous cinematographic technique is perfectly matched to the rigorous moral content of his films.

Bresson implies that money works in ways that bring out the worst of the characters. Yvon is essentially a passive character unless questions of money are concerned. In this sequence, when money is in question, we see disembodied shots of Yvon that imply that he is not in control of his actions. When money interferes with human interactions, people do not act according to their true natures; the normally passive Yvon becomes murderous and vengeful. Nor does money differentiate among the various classes; from poor to rich, all are made to suffer by money. In L’Argent, Bresson demonstrates money and its consequences on a group of people who would otherwise remain separate.

Works Cited

Bresson, Robert. Notes On the Cinematography. New York: Urizen Books, 1977. Print.

L’Argent. Dir. Robert Bresson. Perf. Christian Patey, Beatrice Tabourin, Didier Baussy. New Yorker Films, 1984. Film.

Pipolo, Tony. Robert Bresson: A Passion for Film. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010. Print.

santa’s got a brand new bag.

Okay okay okay, for years people have been trying to scare the pants off of us with demonic Santas, serial killing St Nick’s and ghoulish red hatted old men. It hasn’t ever really worked, except for maybe a huge cultish laugh factor. This year, though, the new decade is issuing a new terror that is Santa Claus. Yes, good ‘ol St. Nick is about to go on a new adventure that just might make us wet ourselves. Check out this new movie, Rare Exports: a Christmas Tale by Finland native Jalmari Helander. So, basically the story goes something like this (or from what i could gather in the trailer/synopses that I can find out there in the ether): a scientist gathers a group of men to dig deep into a mountain in Finland to find something hidden there a long time ago. What they pull out is a frozen Santa Claus. Something is thrown in about a ransom and then some major shit goes down. There’s something hidden in Santa’s eyes that makes you realize he’s got some form of evil power. Yeah, sounds pretty awful doesn’t it? Wrong, the Finnish (i guess that’s how you say it?) can do it! Or, I at least hope they can. It reminds me a lot of the Swedish Dead Snow, about a group of college kids who stumble upon some Nazi Zombies in the mountains of eastern Europe. Well, that movie kicked fucken ass, so I think this new Christmas Thriller can be even better. It doesn’t look like it takes itself too seriously, but it also doesn’t look like you’ll be constantly in tears of laughter. You will be some, no doubt about it. There are apparently psycho elves too and disappearing children. Yikes.

I’m telling you, Santa looks terrifying. I hope my expectations aren’t too high, but this Christmas romp around the deathtrap looks like it could be the best Santa Thriller yet. Definitely will be a cult classic, that is absolutely certain. You can tell just by watching the short trailer that horror freaks like myself will be all over this little puppy. And, haha, it’s foreign. They know how to do their shit, right?

Anyway, check out this ridiculous film and enjoy the trailer below.