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.

The King's Speech, by Tom Hooper

Trailer

I thought I would not be able to catch The King’s Speech on theaters because the release of non-mainstream films in Boston is rare and scarce. In fact, I was planning a trip to New York City to watch it at MoMA, they were screening it as one of the greatest films of 2010. They categorized the film as “a contender for lasting historical significance—and any true cinephile will want to catch them on the big screen.” So you can imagine how excited I was to find out that they were showing it at Kendal and I could avoid another eventful ride on the Chinese bus.

I thought that the story was captivating and very easy to relate to given that one of the most common fears is public speaking. As a college student, I am constantly required to do presentation, and I have hated the idea of standing in front of a quiet classroom each and every time, Thus, I felt completely related to the main character. Instead of a speech disorder, I have a strong accent that comes out even stronger when I am nervous and in front of people. However, such close identification with the character could only occur because the acting was exceptional. Colin Firth truly transmits the frustration of not been able to let his words flow out of his throat. Such frustration was intensified by the camera work.

The viewer is made aware of the device used. The camera moves freely, following the king closely. It shows his point of view, which at times is terrifying. We are constantly glad we are not actually on his shoes, for example, when he is giving his most important speech.

The mise en scene was thought to its smallest details. However, the greatest attention was given to the walls. They express the feelings and progress of the King. As he begins his therapy, the walls at the Doctor’s office are made of multiple layers of paint and colors which are falling apart and cracking down. However, as he becomes more confidence not only on his own capabilities, but also on his Doctor, the therapy takes place at the Doctor’s house where the walls’ patterns are uniform and well kept. Walls become extremely important when the King is about to give his last speech. Here, the Doctor made the room “more cozy” by putting patterned cloths that made the room similar to his house, giving the illusion of a tight and safe nest. MoMA was completely right. This is definitely a film worth watching in the big screen; a TV set or a computer monitor would tune down such stunning aesthetics.

The Silence of the Lambs, by Jonathan Demme

Trailer

The Silence of the Lambs continues to be one of the most influential and startling horror films ever made twenty years after its release. Even if the continuous exposure to violence in culture has created high degrees of callousness in society, this film has tapped into raw and instinctual human fears. Jonathan Demme explores in the film the land of psychology and its terrifying effects, attaining a strong primal bond between the audience and the characters.

The cinematographic choices made in The Silence of the Lambs allow the audience to connect on an instinctual level with the protagonist of the film, Clarice. It is shot from her point of view in such a deliberate way that this connection becomes unavoidable from the opening scenes. The camera follows her closely, revealing no more than what Clarice’s eyes reach and touch. Therefore, we take on the protagonist role, and Clarice becomes only a shell that embodies our actions. The technique used to make such an effective bond between protagonist and audience is the use of shot-reverse-shots from Clarice’s point of view. It is startling when characters talk directly into the camera. Their steady stare is uncomfortable to maintain not only because of the rareness of this kind of shot in mainstream films, but also because they are combined with extreme close-ups, tight framing, and steady eye-level camera angle, making the dialogue even more intruding and direct.

It was clever of Demme to use these techniques to intensify the horror emanated by The Silence of the Lambs. The forth wall is completely removed, and the mortifying story, that is supposed to take place only within the movie screen, trespasses into the real life of the dim theaters. Once Dr. Hannibal Lecter is introduced, the audience realizes that their sheltered role as spectators is completely disrupted. At that point, it becomes evident that the continuous and repetitive warnings of “do not touch the glass, do not approach the glass” were directed not only to Clarice but also to the audience. The glass symbolizes the theater’s screen, a theoretically isolating and safeguarding entity meant to maintain Dr. Lecter at a safe distance from them. Therefore, it is especially gripping and petrifying when Dr. Lecter first talks to Clarice, who is able to identify the lotion she was wearing by simply smelling the air that leaked through the glass. “You use Evian skin cream, and sometimes you wear L’Air du Temps, but not today.” Not only is such an action conceived as almost impossible, but it also demands a certain proximity and contact that have not taken place between them. Could he also be able to discern the lotion that the viewer is wearing? This scene becomes the first sign of Dr. Lecter’s ability to reach out from his dividing wall. Combined with such an unsettling banter, Dr. Lecter looks directly into Clarice’s eyes, and in concordance into the our eyes while stepping closer to the camera as he talks, making the comforting space between him and the audience thinner with every minor movement.

It is interesting to notice that the only occasion in which Dr. Lecter does not stare into the camera is when giving away valuable information about the killer, Buffalo Bill. The dividing glass rematerializes as thick as ever, and we are only able to see his ghost-like blurry reflection on it. This sequence might be the only one in which the viewer whishes to have Dr. Lecter’s penetrating stare focused on them. However, we are completely alienated and reminded of our impotence as spectators, preventing us from actively scrutinize Dr. Lecter’s facial expression to determine, along with Clarice, the truthfulness behind his words. Dr. Lecter explains that the moth found in the last victim’s throat signifies change: “caterpillar into cocoon into beauty.” Such clue signals not only the nature of the killer as a transsexual, but it also indicates the change in the relationship between Dr. Lecter and us, the audience. He has metamorphosed from a frightening figure to a trustworthy one, and therefore, the previously longed dividing glass has gowned to be an obstacle.

Because Clarice feels lost without the guidance of Dr. Lecter, we are lead to place complete trust in him, which is fortified by the editing technique. For the most part of the film, questions posed in one scene are immediately answered by the following one. Such cause-effect editing style is mostly evident when Dr. Lecter adverts Clarice that the killer “must already be looking for his next special lady.” This scene cuts to a close up of a young lady driving back home. Even though there has been no prior indication of her role, there is no doubt that she is the next victim and that the killer will soon be introduced. Thus, the editing transforms distant realities into reactionary events. It embodies a tacit understanding that Dr. Lecter is the narrator of the story; the only one with the abilities to find and show the correct relationship between the scattered clues that Clarice has collected.

The editing style is enhanced by the extensive use of bridges of sound. Dialogues trespass their original scenes to become non-diagetic sounds that fuse two different shots. In addition, the mise en scène is organized with the underlying purpose of promoting the association of apparently scattered and arbitrary elements. Written signs are used extensively as both establishing and foreshadowing elements. For instance, during the opening sequence, the camera pans down from the sky to a wooden sign attached to a tree that reads the words “Hurt, Agony, Pain, Love-it.” This sign sets the tone for the entire film. It could not spell out more clearly the nature of the case that is about to be unwrapped; a case involving serial killers and psychopaths who enjoy and love inflicting pain and agony unto others.

Demme is particularly sharp at teasing the audience after he meticulously creates an environment in which they completely trust on the cause-effect editing and mise en scène. Such implicit understanding of the sequence of effects is used to destabilize the audience and create a significant climax towards the end of the film. As the police prepare to break into the killer’s house, the rapid editing between the killer and the police creates the illusion that they are in the same place. Such illusion is maximized by the use of the house bell as a sound bridge. As the audience believes that the police have finally gotten the killer, they are completely shocked to realize that the person knocking Buffalo Bill’s door is Clarice instead of the S.W.A.P. team. In addition to this startling scene, the use of off-screen space is crucial to intensify the thrilling sensation that has built up to this moment. As Clarice realizes that the man in front of her is Buffalo Bill, she stumbles around the house, trying to catch him. The camera follows her closely through the hallways of the confusing maze that is the house, disorienting the viewers who were already somewhat familiar with this space. Such chase is claustrophobic and frightening because neither the audience nor Clarice get a glance of the killer’s location. However, such feeling is maximized when, after having found a bathtub filled with decomposed body parts, the lights go off and a few seconds of complete darkness invade the theater. At such point, it is obvious that the killer knows where Clarice is, making the dark off-screen space become even more absolute and terrifying.

It is precisely these kind of cinematic elements that make The Silence of the Lambs penetrating and frightening. Jonathan Demme demonstrated that seconds of darkness can create a much petrifying effect than explicit violence. In addition, the perpetual use of point of view shots causes the story and their characters to slowly but steadily enter into the psyche of the audiences. In fact, they are not able to follow Crawford’s initial advice: “you're to tell him nothing personal. Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head.” Precisely the opposite takes place. Dr. Lecter infiltrates into the audience’s heads in such a way that an inevitable smirk of complicity crosses their faces as he points out that he is “having an old friend for dinner.”

The Last Laugh, by F.W. Murnau

Because The Last Laugh only uses one caption through the entire film, it relies heavily on images and the way the camera is able to portrait feelings and messages. Thus, it is not surprising that The Last Laugh has been “considered the source of cinematic innovations” (Kracauer, 102). For instance, in the scene in which the porter wakes up with a hangover after a wedding party, F.W. Murnau uses handhold camera to signify his point of view. This camera movement is combined with a rotating shot of the room in which the walls seam to spin as they do after significant alcohol intoxication. The scene becomes nauseating for the audience, thus completely associating it with the porter. Murmau also uses close ups and zooms in order to direct the attention of the audience toward important details for the narrative. For instance, when a hotel employee is stripping the porter off his uniform, there is a zoom of his shoes as he looks down after a button of his jacket broke. This man’s life is his job, without the uniform that corroborates his position, he feels like he was reduced to the lowest social level parallel to the floor. Later, in a medium shot, the camera pans up and down as he looks at himself feeling naked without the uniform. Another devise used by Murmau throughout the film is the thoughtful arrangement of the image in the frame. During the scenes that show the porter’s neighborhood, there is a recurrent use of long shots in which the people fill only the bottom of the frame. This framing places the neighborhood as a medium to low social class; they are at the bottom of the society as they are in the frame.

It was very original and thought provoking the fact that The Last Laugh’s only caption is to acknowledge the unrealistic ending of the film. I had never seen such an ending before. It is a way to bring the attention to the differences between reality and fiction, and the God-like authority that authors have over the character’s lives. It is also an effective transition to demonstrate the need that audiences have for nonsensical happy endings. It gives the audience a way to walk out of the theater feeling uplifted, yet with a predominantly bitter after taste. Thus, the problems in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari's ending, which “glorified authority and convicted its antagonist of madness,” are confronted and criticized.