The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, by Luis Buñuel

In this film, Buñuel examines and criticizes, once again, the higher class of society by revealing the absurdities they engage in to maintain proper appearances and manners. He does so by using a surrealistic course of actions delineated by dreams within dreams.

The interaction of the bourgeoisie with other social strata is ridiculous, resulting on the opposite outcome the characters were trying to convey. The social class that is looked down becomes their own instead of the one they were criticizing and trying to ridicule. For example, after they explain the proper recipe and right ingredients to make a martini, they invite their driver to have a drink with them. They give him a martini and stare at him closely to point out how little class and education he has given the way he drank it. However, it is evident for everyone, except the bourgeois in the film, that the driver nervously drinks up his martini as fast as he can only because he wants to give an end to such an awkward situation. In this scene, the camera moves quickly into a close-up of the driver’s face, so the audience is able to scrutinize his actions like the rest of the people in the room. Because this camera movement places so much emphasis and focus on the martini, it presents with certainty the idea that he has been given poison instead of gin. Drinks and poison are recurrent themes in this film. Another example is the Bishop’s story about the death of his parents who were poisoned to death. In addition, one of the soldiers, that opens up and relates events of his childhood, confesses that he poisoned his father following the wishes of his mother’s ghost.

It is interesting how Buñuel shows the high levels of awkwardness and oddity when the bourgeois are invaded by human instincts which do not make concessions across social classes. In this case, he uses sexual impulses to show how incongruous this social class is. They look extremely awkward when trying to have sex: they cannot take off their clothes and do not really know what to do with the animal instincts that were invading their bodies. Such instincts were considered so extraneous to their social class that, in order to fulfill them, they go through the trouble of sneaking out of their own house to have sex in the garden so their guests would not notice what they were doing.

Another interesting point made about the dominant role and differences of social classes is conveyed by the use of sound. Traffic noise mists up important conversations regarding economics and politics. This is a sharp criticism to the social system because it implies that this kind of topics, which affect every strata of society, can only be heard and discussed by the affluent. The rest of the population is kept in the darkness of confusing noises so that they won’t learn about the actions these people engage in, such as transporting and selling cocaine.

Wild Grass, by Alan Resnais

I wanted to watch this film because I enjoyed a lot Hiroshima Mom Amour and I was curious to find differences and similarities between these two films. However, I was mostly attracted to Wild Grass to attempt to discover whether or not Resnais’ geniality to manipulate and experiment with cinema’s conventions and boundaries could still be considered prominent and transgressive.

If I had to describe my impression of Wild Grass in one word, it would be perplexity. I think this is one of those films that you have to watch a couple of times to truly understand it. I was allured by the impression I was getting the meaning of the film throughout its first half to realize, however, that my interpretations were far from the actual meaning of the story. For instance, I had initially thought that George’s wife was his daughter, which significantly changes the understanding of their relationship and course of actions.

On the other hand, I was pleased to see Hiroshima Mom Amour echoed throughout Wild Grass. For example, there is an extensive use of voice over and internal monologues. The effects of these monologues in the viewer resembles the waves of the sea: they take us extremely close to the characters by entering into their minds to then push us away and alienate us as we loose track of the central meaning and sense of their dialogues. In addition, as in Hiroshima Mom Amour the characters’ faces are not shown to the audience only after a significant long time.

An interesting, and arguably obvious, difference between Hiroshima Mom Amour and Wild Grass is Resnais’ play with color. I could not avoid wondering how he would have used color in Hiroshima Mom Amour given the fact that its use and manipulation was so obvious in Wild Grass. Neon lights are present in almost every scene, tinting the whole frame with green, red, blue, and yellow tonalities. Color is meticulously present not only in the choice of lighting, but also in every mise-en-scene. For example, the color blue plays an important role throughout the film. It represents the sky, the only place where Marguerite Muir is completely fulfilled, free, and happy. In addition, blue signifies beginnings and endings, death and birth. George’s and Marguerite’s relationship becomes tangible within the confines of a blue-glass building. However, this newly born relationship fades away and dies, along with their lives, in the plain accident (once again, they were confined by the color blue). The presence of blue as a signifier of death and endings can also be found in the fact that the first and only time when George complains about his wife, confessing the precarious state of their relationship, is when he is painting his house blue. On the other hand, red represents, as usual, passion and desire. Marguerite has a fluffy and lion-like red hair, symbolizing a forbidden fruit and object of desire.

In this film, Resnais seems to incorporate in a serious yet ironical degree, different genre and film conventions. For example, the sequence in which George decides to leave the wallet he had found at the police station, seems a tribute to film noir. The combination of low-key lighting with window blinds that create horizontal shades of light and shadow are very characteristic of this film genre. As to make such resemblance more prominent, there are deformed shadows of people reflected in a glass wall. Another film convention Resnais plays with is the over-imposition of imaginary actions as the characters meditate and decide on their course of action. Finally, it cannot be ignored the apparent end of the film in which George and Marguerite embrace with an over the top, old-Hollywood style kiss while the word “Fin” flashes by.

The Rules of the Game, Jean Renoir

Renowned film critic Siegfried Kracauer once said that films are hieroglyphics of a society because they represent the deep worries, concerns, realities, humor, and trends of their period. That was the case of The Rules of the Game, which enraged the audience of its time as they felt identified with the protagonists of the film. Even thought The Rules of the Game would not be necessarily classified as a realist film, Renoir was able to accurately convey the mindset of this period in a crudely realistic tone. Frivolity was used to cover up the fatality related to death and war in which everyone’s minds were focused. By 1939, when The Rules of the Game was first released, France had recently joined Great Britain to fight against Germany in World War II. The fear of an unavoidable period of massacre, destruction, and economic distress was the blueprint for the film. The presence of war was similar to the air that fills every room, scene, and atmosphere: something that is apparently invisible but nonetheless unavoidably present. As Renoir explains, “knowing that we were going to have war, in being absolutely convinced of it, my work was impregnated with it, despite myself” (Sesonske, 6). However, by not talking directly about war, the message of the film has a more intrinsic impact than it would otherwise.

Violence is represented in an incredibly raw and direct fashion during the hunting sequence. The preparation for the hunt mirrors different bands of soldiers preparing for combat. The guests check their weapons and proper locations to settle down like soldier would do to ensure a complete extermination of their enemies. Once the hunting begins, it becomes almost unbearable to watch as repetitive shots of rabbits, falling and twitching, seem to have no end. In this sequence, Renoir switches his style: the camera pans steadily at an eye level angle and it takes on a documentary tone as it records authentic death and killing. The intensity and memorability of this sequence lays on the numerous shots of different length of rabbits running in the field accompanied by complete silence. Tension builds up as the apparent peaceful scenery does not truly cover up the morbidity of the scene. The camera seems to takes on the point of view of the rabbits whose lives will be interrupted by gunfire in a manner of minutes. In fact, the first shot abruptly breaks this absolute silence, violating not only the prey’s lives but also the audience’s audiovisual senses by creating a shock effect. As rabbit after rabbit falls face flat in the ground, a longer shot focuses on one rabbits while it twitches in the ground until its last drop of life evaporates. Renoir was especially skillful in integrating this sequence in the film. The field of the villa covered by dead rabbits mirrors to an almost perfect degree the real battlefields paved with dead bodies. Even though Renoir never explicitly acknowledges war and death, this sequence is exponentially more dreadful and effective than an enacted killing scene would have been. It is a peak beneath the surface of this society and into their real unconscious and motivations.

Toy Story 3, by Lee Unkrich

Going through some of my old files, I ran into this little piece I had forgotten to have written and thus never published. I was still in Aussie when I saw this movie, so reading this few lines revived many of the nourishing memories I have from that incredible summer. Coincidently, yesterday I met with some of the people I meet half way across the globe. So I decided to publish it even if it might not be quite updated. Here it is:

I finally went to the world’s largest IMAX. Its size is overwhelming, however, seeing a feature film projected on it did not make me as tired as I was expecting. Being part of the Disney and Pixar generation, and thus having grown up along side of their characters and stories, I could not miss the continuation of Toy Story even if I had not especially liked the previous two.

It was interesting seeing Toy Story with another mind-set. In fact, I was talking about it with my mom and it was interesting to compare our completely different interpretations of the underline meanings of the story. She saw the film as making a stand towards our materialistic culture characterized by not valorizing things and constantly feeling a need to buy something new. Instead, I watched it with my 10-year-old mind-set, seeing it as a lovely fantasy world which I have always secretly hoped it was true.

Black Swan, Darren Aronofsky

Everybody kept telling me how amazing this film was, but during the hectic times of final exams I was not able to see it before leaving the US for christmas break. I was so upset, sure that Black Swan had to be one of those visually striking films that deserve the big screen rather than the monitor of my mac. I was right about that. But luckily, given all the buzz that the film has received, it found its way out of the small independent movie theaters into the commercial ones, and it was still on once I came back to Boston. It was definitely a beautiful film. The use of lighting was impressive. Natalie Portman seems to dance with the camera, and thus the audience. Nevertheless, I did find the aesthetics and use of black and white a bit overdone.

Apart from the visuals and the aesthetics, I had many problems with this film. It did not go deep enough into subject and issues it raises. For example, the fact that she cuts herself to stay in control of something in her life was not truly analyzed. This issue is something that is very present in our society, even if it goes unnoticed most of the time. People tend to know and talk a lot about eating disorders but not about other kind of coping mechanisms such as cutting yourself. However, the film uses it more as a way to gross out the public rather than to make a stand.

The ending completely ruined the film for me. It takes away any kind of credibility that it was trying to build all along. The fact that she supposedly danced beautifully for her whole performance even after having stabbed herself just turned me off completely. If they were doing a psychological film, they should have drilled more on that instead of going off tangents that distill its credibility. Along the same lines, what was going on with her mother? Couldn't they honestly make a better casting decision?

It might be that I had very high expectation for this film, but it just didn't work out for me.

Metropolis, by Fritz Lang

Metropolis is one of Fritz Lang’s most perplexing films. Throughout its eighty years of life, it has provoked diverse polemics and reactions from each generation that has watched it. Nevertheless, no matter the vantage point taken for its analysis, a recurring criticism, or observation, has been the disjunction between its visuals and its story, with the former supposedly greatly surpassing the latter in quality.

It cannot be denied that the special effects and visuals of Metropolis have a mesmerizing quality. The expensive budget and extensive time allocated to its production completely paid off in this regard. The city featured in the film, composed of imposing buildings and machines, is only part of the grandiose world projected by Metropolis. The meticulous attention paid to details was probably the cause of this success. For example, the movement of actors through the sets is synchronized so perfectly that they look either like machines or like chaotic waves, depending on the evolution of the story. The workers are one with the machines; they completely lose traits of individualism and psychological qualities. Their black uniforms, coordinated movements, and similar physiognomies and facial expressions make them amalgamate and become part of the mise en scène. According to Siegfried Kracauer, such “visual depiction of crowds [is] pleasurable to the eye but politically totalitarian[.] Lang’s geometrical forms in Metropolis deprive the masses of a will and reduce their public participation to a demagogic reflex.” In fact, even when the workers are apparently out of control by the robot Maria’s incitement, their movements are not so much willed by them as programmed and imposed by a greater force, in this case the robot, and thus by its master Joh Fredersen, here representative of the state.

Even if Metropolis is not scrutinized under the same political magnifying glass as Kracauer’s, the narrative behind its elaborate mise en scène is significantly lacking in quality and effectiveness. The film’s core message could not be more clichéd and simplistic: “the mediator between head and hands must be the heart.” This emphasis on the need for a savior becomes a call for inertia. The workers should wait for a magical solution to descend from the heavens and fix their problems. It becomes somewhat comical that the recommendation to rise against the oppressive machines in order to demand their rights would come from the robot Maria rather than the human one. Nevertheless, it is fairly insulting the minimal brain activity granted to the working class in Metropolis. They can be hypnotized and lured into either madness or lethargy with the same ease. These deliberate plot choices, however, might be a reflection of the society of the time. Thus, as Kracauer noticed, “Metropolis was rich in subterranean content that, like contraband, had crossed the borders of consciousness without being questioned.” For such a reason, Metropolis can be considered a document that records the social conditions that created the environment for the rise of the Nazis.

Metropolis is therefore valuable evidence and material when trying to perform an autopsy of the Weimar society. By dissecting this kind of document, both direct products and emblematic representation of the period, important aspects of its society are unveiled. This is true because, as Kracauer points out in “The Mass Ornament,” “the surface-level expressions, […] by virtue of their unconscious nature, provide unmediated access to the fundamental substance of the state of things.” Thus, Metropolis’ society, one whose individuals could only act and react as atom-like parts of a mass, is a startlingly close representation of the society that would soon cheer for Hitler’s indoctrinations as it was apparent in his propagandistic, yet documentary film, The Triumph of the Will. Adding to such a tendency for mimicry, society’s need and desire for a strong leader and savior is also a characteristic that Metropolis identified and addressed. The same blind admiration and devotion for both Marias can be identified in the footage from Hitler’s early rallies across Germany. Germans were going through a time of great depression and economic distress and needed a father-like figure who would reorganize the chaos they were in. Coincidentally, this is exactly what Maria was supposed to do in Metropolis. She is the connection between the workers and the mediator who would save and release them from the enslaving machines of the city.

Nevertheless, even if Thea von Harbou was able to transcribe the collective unconscious of the time, the romantic plot between Freder and Maria is trite and irrelevant. They fall in love after their first glance, and they declare such mutual love after only knowing each other’s names. Their kiss of celebration and triumph is completely extraneous to the flood that is threatening to destroy the future of the city, its children. Moreover, it seems that Freder is not, like Jesus, sent from the heavens as the prophet that the working class is waiting for, but is rather another marionette controlled by the intoxication of Maria’s seduction or love. Such development of the plot makes unmistakable the mark and influence that Hollywood’s box-office films had on Metropolis. Their asphyxiating cloud of romantic, unrealistic, and simplistic plots had finally reached the skies of German films.

In addition to such an unnecessary romantic subplot, as Tom Gunning puts it, “everyone hates the ending” to which it leads. It seems as if Lang and von Harbou had tried to assume Hollywood’s equation for profit maximization: an unrealistic happy ending. As it might be expected, Kracauer also finds such an ending objectionable. He criticized it as veiling its audience’s eyes with easy resolutions that would make them forget about the politically charged problems initially posed by the film. In this case, he points out that the apparent victory of the working class is only an illusion, part of Joh Fredersen’s plan to ensure his continuous domination over his city and over his son. By letting the workers become intoxicated with the idea of having won over the ruler and considering themselves at his same level, they will be back to lethargy, since there is nothing else to fight for. “[Joh Fredersen’s] concession […] amounts to a policy of appeasement that not only prevents the workers from winning their cause, but enables him to tighten his grip on them” (Kracauer). Therefore, the ruler’s influence is now exerted upon the worker’s hearts, making it even easier than before to manipulate them. Joh Fredersen’s plan goes beyond the domination of the city into his personal life. “On the surface, it seems that Freder has converted his father; in reality, the industrialist has outwitted his son” (Kracauer). He conveniently makes his rebellious son believe that he was finally worth something since his actions made the conciliation between the ‘head’ and the ‘hands’ of Metropolis possible. After believing in such a victory, Freder can rejoicingly return to his comfortable nest and stop contradicting his father.

It seems oddly simplistic to believe that the valid criticism raised by Kracauer would have passed unnoticed by someone with the mental sharpness of Lang and von Harbou; which makes one wonder whether such an ending was cynically constructed. This theory takes on greater weight when noticing that the workers are represented by Grot, “a management spy and informer, who cares only for the machines of Metropolis. And the heart is the boss’s son” (Gunning). Therefore, it becomes apparent that the ending’s facility might have been a way of appealing to both the mass audiences, who prefer compact endings, and to the intellectual niche, who would decode the criticism of the state in such absurd ending. Upon understanding the ironic final twist, one’s perspective of the film drastically changes. However, such interpretation is obscure and not easily recognized, and thus, the majority of its viewers would not walk away from the cinema thinking that the film’s final resolution is a criticism of the political system.

Dr. Mabuse, The Gambler, by Fritz Lang

During the 1920s, Germany was suffering from having a government that was perceived as weak and incompetent. The Weimar Republic faced numerous problems such as hyperinflation and strong opposition from the right and left wings. Such political instability echoed through all Germans’ paths of life. Thus, it is not uncommon to find elements in art works that reflected and were directly linked to the society’s mental uneasiness and worries of the time. Fritz Lang’s Dr. Mabuse films are a clear example of such works. These films provide a face and a name to the invisible hand perceived to be responsible for all of society’s problems. In fact, Lang claimed that Dr. Mabuse represented “not simply some man from 192[2], but the man of 192[2];” converting the films into documents of their time.

The story line is rooted in worries about criminals who can blend perfectly into society. Lang was especially successful at discerning and delineating society’s intertwined web of common fears. Such fears were incubated and growing as the result of the country’s complex historic episodes. In fact, there are unsettling similarities between sequences of the film and later Nazi propaganda against Jews. Such similarities could indeed be the result of Lang’s direct influence in the creative department of the Nazis. However, it cannot be ignored that the means used by the Nazis to sway the population to engage in horrifying actions was through the magnification of the collective fears explored by Lang in his films. In fact, Lang was able to translate such latent fears into the character of Dr. Mabuse. For example, Dr. Mabuse is able to hypnotize people to do inexplicable things they would not do otherwise. He seems to embody a godlike figure with an uncanny ability to control people’s minds at his will. As if playing with people’s actions were not enough, he is also a master of disguise, which allows him to work his magic without being recognized by those around him. His precise understanding of disguise, such as costumes and the forgery of documents, allows him to steal and manipulate identities.

Throughout the film, a main anxiety explored is the manipulation of monetary systems and society’s struggle to cope with inflation. Thus, in Dr. Mabuse, The Gambler, Germans are finally given a name to blame for all of their monetary adversities. Dr. Mabuse plays with stockbrokers through the manipulation of information, as if they were marionettes. He is a master at reading people and understanding the appropriate time to release and withhold information from public knowledge to generate the desired reactions.

This manipulation of the flow of information can only be achieved by skillful maneuvering through the systems of modernity. By elaborating this particular theme, Lang portrayed German society’s state of breathlessness in catching up with the numerous technological advances of the time. There is a vast difference between Dr. Mabuse and the rest of the ordinary population in their understanding and internalization of technological systems. While most people tried to make some sense of the invasion of trains, cars, telephones, and the like, Dr. Mabuse comprehended their reliability and great potential for his plans.

For example, he knew that the railroad system, rather than being detached from the lives of its passengers, directly affects their destiny and future. Even though the railway is thought of as riding parallel to a “world of random encounters,” if the time is taken to thoroughly study the system, it is possible to adapt its “internal complexity” to individual needs. This is precisely what Dr. Mabuse is able to do by studying and understanding the schedules of trains. Consequently, schedules and time have a key role throughout the films. The scheming plans could not be carried out if the criminals were not in perfect synchronicity. Schedules become the spinal cord of Dr. Mabuse’s operations, necessary for every plan to function.

Departures from schedule are what Dr. Mabuse tries to control with the aid of telephones. Even though his body is in one place, his mental powers travel outwards over the telephone wires, affirming his will and presence in more than one place. Thus, Dr. Mabuse has assumed and embodied the qualities of telephones, which make “travel almost superfluous, partly [fulfilling] humankind’s dream of becoming omnipresent.” Nevertheless, he knows the high likelihood of telephone messages being intercepted by third parties, and thus in Dr. Mabuse, The Gambler, he prefers the passage of important information through encoded messages that travel from hand to hand. In fact, he passes messages by writing indications on currency bills and congratulation cards. It is interesting to notice that in the end of Dr. Mabuse, The Gambler, his operations are still at a high peak that seems unreachable by the inspector. However, that mountain starts to crumble in the second part of the film, as he increasingly relies on telephones.

Therefore, as the story of Dr. Mabuse develops through the two halves of the film, the complexity of the role of telephones builds up. As a medium of control and penetration into closed systems, the telephone goes from being the glue of Dr. Mabuse’s operations to become one of the principal causes of the fall of his empire. At first, he is the only one understanding the ability of telephones to reach sealed places, access to which would otherwise be impossible. In addition, they help him to completely master his plans. They become the mean to “be present and absent at the same time, by making [his] bod[y] invisible and [his] voic[e] infinitely transportable.”

However, after always being at least a step behind Dr. Mabuse, inspector von Wenk stumbles onto the usefulness of telephones. By simply scanning through a telephone directory, von Wenk finds the key to Dr. Mabuse’s fortress: his telephone number. He now has the power to contact and reach Dr. Mabuse whenever he desires. More importantly, Dr. Mabuse starts losing control when von Wenk and the Count begin using the telephone to communicate between themselves instead of through him. This is the reason why he demands the Count to cut communication with the outside world in order to get treatment for his mental disorder. Dr. Mabuse foresees great risks if the Count stays in contact with von Wenk because they could connect loose ends that might unveil his identity and the kidnapping of the Countess.

It is interesting that what ultimately causes the fall of Dr. Mabuse is not the government but women. It seems as if German society had returned to a childish state of mind in which a maternal figure was needed to comfort and save it. There is angst in men which results from the dramatic “transition from being a baby, dominated by instinctual need, to an adult individual who has to negotiate social reality.” These worries are mirrored in the conclusion of German films of this period such as Dr. Mabuse and Nosferatu. Women are the ultimate heroes. They sacrifice themselves, as only a mother would for her children, in order to save men from the horrors greater than life that they have encountered. The acting style and casting decisions of these films are in direct correlation with the protagonists’ sensation of helplessness as they face their adulthood. For instance, as Kracauer noticed, the flimsy and spineless male protagonists’ recurrent way to deal with problems is to throw themselves into bed and bury their heads in women’s laps in search of maternal protection. The adversities that life has put into their paths, similar to the German audiences’ of the time, were too overwhelming for them to cope with. Thus, they wished to go back to a time in which their mothers would have safeguarded them. In fact, Dr. Mabuse’s malicious plans are ultimately cracked by the heroic act of women. Carozza and the Countess are the only two characters that directly defy Dr. Mabuse and his plans. Motivated by love and the admiration of its purest kind, both women break the closed circles that were holding Dr. Mabuse’s operation together. Therefore, even if Dr. Mabuse is a master of disguise and the interlocked systems of modernity, he cannot factor into his frivolous and precise calculations the irrational reactions triggered by love and obsession.