The Virgin Suicides: The Male Gaze and the Prioritization of the Aesthetic

Written By: Keaton Marcus

Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides kickstarted the director's career in 1999, fueled by a singular vision and talented performers. A coming of age story written from a female perspective about the dynamics of the male gaze and the struggles of being a teenage girl--its cinematography only matches the attitudes towards the film's titular characters on a purely aesthetic level--mystical and fantastical without ever truly getting to know their humanity. These girls are objects and toys without agency and it's Coppola's searing cautionary tale full of emotional repression and angst that brings their story to life. The film is impenetrable and cold at once, warm and inviting at another, but never entirely giving away its intentions. Coppola asks viewers to look beneath the surface beneath the shallow perspectives of the main male characters, and hopefully gain empathy for the female ones in this odyssey into their psyches.

The Virgin Suicides is a beautiful story about five sisters, and their mysterious existence told in the words of the neighborhood boys who worshiped them and who come together 20 years later to try and solve the mystery of the Lisbon sisters.

It's impossible to analyze The Virgin Suicides without addressing its narrators--and how the male gaze as an entirety alters our perspectives on the girls. Defining the term--it refers to the largely heteronormative male perspective of women in particular, and their general tendency to objectify and sexualize them. It's already impressive that Coppola made such an insightful take on the theme in 1999 considering the term was only popularized recently. The girls' entire lives and struggles are ripped from themselves. Instead of giving them the chance to narrate and convey their tribulations, audiences only see one side of the story--the male side. The boys living in the neighborhood are who we see most of; whether it's expressing their fantasies about the girls or watching them from a distance. Even in the "present day" scenes, it's the men attempting to solve the mystery of their suicides. They were so beautiful and perfect, after all. But what they don't comprehend is that their "love" for these girls wasn't love--but mere obsession and infatuation. They fell in love with the idea of them--their entrancing eyes and gorgeous hair and not who they were as people, and that's a tragedy that's still so unfortunately prevalent in society's views of women and girls.

The movie's cinematography is undeniably beautiful, but it's also Sofia Coppola's subtle and purposeful test for viewers. Will they drool over the film simply due to its stunningly sunny aesthetic and alluring montage or try and understand its deeper and more relevant ideas underneath. Its painterly stylistic tendencies are only mere mimicry of the male perspectives of these girls. Its beauty and prettiness are so easily commendable that we forget that this is a very, very important piece of cinema. On the first watch, I found myself getting ever so slightly distracted by the style--and that isn't an issue in it, but I looked past what lay so obvious below. It's a testament to Coppola's brilliance. She challenges herself to walk on the tricky tightrope between style and substance not only in her film's cinematography but its characters. The several montages of the girls just lying around and dreamily taking in their equally gorgeous surroundings are the boys' fantasies of them. Because they're so beautiful on the outside, they must live perfect lives, devoid of any struggle or effort--simple and tantalizing without any conflict. That's where their logic truly falters. The girls are locked in their house by increasingly strict and controlling parents, forced to deal with their severe cases of depression alone--and eventually, they kill themselves in response. But, again, if they had such fantastic lives, why would they do such a thing? The premise explains that 20 years later, the men are still trying to solve the "mystery" of the suicides. There was no mystery. The men created the mystery to entertain themselves as teenagers--they liked the body without the soul--the aesthetic without the feeling. The girls were so clearly suffering but the people around them were so focused on either possessing or objectifying them that they forgot they were human beings as well. This story is an epic coming-of-age tragedy most of all--intimate in its scope but apocalyptic in its ambitions stylistically and thematically. A masterpiece if I've ever seen one.

I think the main message that this analysis and the movie itself are trying to send is the fact that we are so quick to prioritize what's pleasing to the eye over what's pleasing to the mind. The example Coppola uses, of course, is a double-edged sword--a representation of the male gaze of teenage girls and our collective gaze of cinema. It's only ironic that this movie has become a cult classic on Pinterest boards for its aesthetics that so many fail to see its importance. When I think of great art--I think of shows and movies that have the special capability to change our society for the better, carrying this interminable power of relevance and strength that both those living today and posterity will remember.

Why Euphoria is a Game changer for YA Television

Keaton Marcus

Popular television for teenagers is an unfortunate sight. Forgettable soap operas and cringe-inducing, willfully unrealistic comedies leave little room for artists who want to produce genuinely meaningful, deeper content.

From the guilty pleasures viewers find in Riverdale, the glamorization of the societal 1% in Gossip Girl, to the futile attempts of tackling suicide in 13 Reasons Why mired by an exploitative, victim-blaming nature, teenagers are stuffed with toothless television.

Disregarding the blatant lack of critique in the classism of CW’s Gossip Girl (admittedly addicting for the first few seasons), insecurity is bound to fester within younger viewers. Watching Blake Lively (among everyone else in the show) keep a societally coveted body image flawlessly while dealing with the most painfully privileged issues can’t be healthy when consumed in massive quantities. It wasn’t for myself, and I sure don’t have any friends getting married to French royalty. This all withholds the show from a necessary sense of relatability that good television, like Euphoria, exceeds at. This is television that has the guts to tackle something of greater depth without fumbling the ball completely.

The fantastical world of Gossip Girl is passably enjoyable to watch on occasion (with a mocking perspective), but once in a while, shouldn’t teenagers get more characters that represent themselves socially, sexually, emotionally, or even just physically? And when they do, shouldn’t the writing feel genuine? The aforementioned 13 Reasons Why is definitely an attempt to do so, but following season one, the show obtusely loses all purpose and validity. What is the point of turning a series initially about a victim of suicide into lifeless murder mysteries or love triangles? What should be issues tackled with sensitivity instead just feels like meaningless, directionless exploitation, and I’m tired of it.

Euphoria, the series created by HBO and Sam Levinson, marks a fearless departure from the mainstream of young adult television. Now two seasons in, it has garnered various accolades, critical acclaim and a faithful fan base since its inception in 2019. Levinson, who struggled with substance abuse as a teenager, is refreshingly unafraid to tackle delicate issues with an unbridled, welcome intensity.

“I spent the majority of my teenage years in and out of hospitals, rehabs and halfway houses,” Levinson said at the show’s premiere. “I was a drug addict, and I’d take anything and everything until I couldn’t hear or breathe or feel.” (The Hollywood Reporter)

Intertwining topics of depression, anxiety, sexuality and drug addiction into a fascinating Magnolia-esque coming of age tale, I feel as if Euphoria is genuinely realistic and important. This is in significant contrast to the popular drudgery being produced in harmful quantities from the likes of Netflix and the CW (Riverdale, Never Have I Ever, 13 Reasons Why, etc.).

The real challenge in writing a show with topics such as these is avoiding exploitation and glorification for the sake of entertainment value, an obstacle that many series struggle to overcome.

Levinson, the writer of almost every episode, cleverly injects his personal experiences into the main characters that create interesting contrasts. Brutality in the first season gives into sensitivity in the two therapy-based specials (released in between seasons one and two), and the clearly personal story woven into the show is beautifully paired with a sense of universality with these characters.

The main character, Rue, (Zendaya) most represents Levinson as a person growing up. Struggling with drug addiction and depression from a very young age, Rue’s character arc largely consists of dealing with the temptations of narcotics and attempting to overcome her fixation. Jules (Hunter Schafer) is not only Rue’s love interest but is also dealing with the experiences of being transgender in a high school with a largely heteronormative society. Jules’ existence is a constant back-and-forth with Nate (Jacob Elordi), a seemingly archetypal popular jock at deep subconscious warfare with his sexuality and the stoic traditionalism, toxic masculinity and predatorial attitudes exuded by his father, Cal. Other notable characters are all dealing with individual, nuanced struggles that teens actually face in everyday life, such as body image and toxic relationships.

On one hand, there’s television classified as young adult or series that specifically “cater” to viewers aged 12-18, but on the other, there’s television that a lot of teenagers still watch regardless of the intended audience. 

These are shows generally made for adults, such as Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, The Handmaid’s Tale, Friends, 30 Rock, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and others that aren’t necessarily inappropriate, but weren’t created for younger audiences specifically (12-18 years). All of the series I listed (besides Game of Thrones, which I haven’t seen yet) are very good and very critically acclaimed, but there’s an issue here. When all the best shows that teenagers watch are not only written by adults but also solely about the lives of adults, you know there’s a big disconnect. Now, not all YA television is throwaway trash, but there’s a disappointing discrepancy between the number of quality shows made for adults and teenagers. 

What’s so unique about Euphoria is that the man behind the show seeks to reflect on his own adolescence through the main characters, crafting something truly transcendent and universal for teenagers in this largely challenging environment. The quality of some of the finest series on television today is kept in full, but the teenagers have the spotlight this time.

Euphoria isn’t for the faint of heart. Graphic nudity, a visceral portrayal of substance abuse, and at times, brutal violence, are some of the constants in the series. But why should we care for Euphoria then? Why do I ultimately see it as something that stands out from the crowd? 

The point of this show isn’t simply to display the drug use or the violence but to spark an affinity between other teenagers dealing with similar issues to the characters here. In response to D.A.R.E (an anti-drug campaign) criticizing Euphoria for “glorifying” drugs, Zendaya argued this same compelling point in an interview with Entertainment Weekly.

“Our show is in no way a moral tale to teach people how to live their life or what they should be doing,” she said. “If anything, the feeling behind ‘Euphoria,’ or whatever we have always been trying to do with it, is to hopefully help people feel a little bit less alone in their experience and their pain.” (Entertainment Weekly)

A Commentary on Sidney Poitier

Keaton Marcus

There was likely something inspiring to Black people across the nation about seeing a charismatic African American movie star rise through the ranks of the industry before winning an Academy Award. The sensations must have been apocalyptic (in the most genuine sense) as the one and only Sidney Poitier, who died last week at age 94, stepped up on stage, giving his acceptance speech. It was undoubtedly an iconic and unforgettable moment in cinematic history. The utter vigor in seeing a significant figure of a race so ostracized at the time getting national recognition still comes with its share of more subtle bigotry, however. Looking under the undeniably moving, yet shallow surface of Poitier on stage holding the golden trophy, there is still an evident amount of reprehensible privilege exuded from white people. As long as we allow one Black actor to win an Oscar, we're progressive enough, right? Wrong, Hollywood. Poitier was unfortunately used as a marker of celebration for the United States to boast to other countries around the world that the industry had somehow "moved past" their past racist ideals due to this singular prize. In addition, the general majority of roles that Poitier portrayed in his filmography seemed restrictive, lacking those "leading qualities" audiences were used to seeing in conventionally attractive white men. Sexually repressed and just a hint more robotic in characterizations, even in celebration of one of Hollywood's heroes, there are still despicable hints of discrimination.

Thus far, our class has viewed three films featuring Poitier. These include, in order of release, The Defiant Ones, A Raisin in the Sun, and Lilies of the Field, all admittedly considered notable installments to his filmography. Beginning with The Defiant Ones, the plot is fairly simple, catering more to fans of adrenaline rushes, albeit with less technical prowess as most movies made today. It tells the story of two chain gang members: John "Joker" Jackson (portrayed by Tony Curtis) and Noah Cullen (Poitier), forced to work together after escaping prison transport. The transcendence in the plot of this film is noticing that both a white man and a Black man co-star. At the time, such an idea almost felt forbidden, and director Stanley Kramer's choice is admirable, to say the least. Although I would not argue that Poitier's Cullen is a noble figure, I think he shows considerable restraint and detachment in his performance, at least compared to Curtis. This undoubtedly alludes to this "code of conduct,” as one may say, for Black actors at the time. Poitier needed to show white audiences that he could act civilized, without wild sexual desires or the raging impulses Curtis was allowed to portray. It's essentially this concept that people of color needed to unfairly "impress" white people to succeed, still birthed from the treacherous roots of racist ideology. In this case, the face of progressiveness barely covers up a far more menacing appearance underneath.

The film that gives huge and refreshing contrast to The Defiant Ones is the 1961 adaptation of Lorraine Hansberry's critically lauded play A Raisin in the Sun. In what is his best performance I've viewed, Poitier plays Walter Younger, a man full of ambition in an era when Black people weren't allowed to have, or at least pursue, emotions of that kind. Walter is a character that is allowed to radiate a sincere and commanding presence. Poitier gives such a convincing depiction of a man desperate to break out of the constricting confines of societal norms, his sprawling dreams claustrophobic in a world so ridden with discrimination against anything different. The genuine and domineering passion that was lacking in The Defiant Ones (and especially Lilies of the Field) was here in all of its glorious fashion. To all those standing in Walter’s way, or who he thinks is blocking him from manifesting destiny (namely his wife and mother), he shows little to no remorse, but in the most humanistic sense. His pure hunger for a greater life reminded me of Ryan Gosling's Sebastian in Damien Chazelle's La La Land. Still, with a mostly Black cast, it brings questions to the table about whether he was only allowed to show this caliber of emotion with others of his race. Nonetheless, the film marks fewer restrictions in the allowance of humanity in Walter, and the performance I would have wished had got him that Oscar.

The golden trophy instead went to young Poitier for his outing in 1963 dramedy Lilies of the Field. Deemed a reasonable success at the time of its release, this certainly wasn't a bad watch. Feel-good and modest in this very wholesome spirit, nothing here impressed me much, but there wasn't a specific aspect that angered me in any sense of the word. Poitier's performance, in particular, easily paled in comparison to something as impressive as A Raisin in the Sun, but the effort was clear in consideration of middling characterization. His character, a handyman named Homer Smith, wasn't unpleasant to watch, but his general demeanor felt far more forgettable and almost token put up against Walter. His entire purpose in the film is helping a group of (white) nuns build a chapel in a small, almost podunk town essentially in the middle of nowhere. He shows up, does his job, and leaves. It's an incredibly simple arc without much meaningful development, albeit with a few scattered, charming moments of chemistry between the two parties. Ultimately, it falls once more into this unfortunate trope described previously with The Defiant Ones. His mannerisms were of a more calm and collected manner, and disappointingly so. The humanity that needed to be unleashed more consistently felt choked out here, perhaps even stripped in places. 

Mark Harris's Pictures at a Revolution also comments on this trend in Poitier's work (with more examples in his career), while additionally reinforcing this concept that his Oscar win was more of a progress point for Hollywood to pat themselves on the backs for. On page 55, Harris writes: "He wouldn't let himself-couldn't let himself-play villains. Hollywood would never allow him to play a character with real sexual passion. And the possibility that he might one day be able to compete with white actors in which race could be factored out wasn't even worth discussing." Ponder this just for a moment. Poitier himself was so pressured into only playing protagonists, or men of generally morally upstanding nature, that he had to play into this narrow-minded atmosphere Hollywood had created for Black actors. Not only this but the privileges that white actors had of playing roles without significant mentions of their race was lost to Poitier. Even with a solidly popular position in the industry, the balancing beam of equality was never fully intact. On page 58, Harris continues: "Poitier's Best Actor win was widely taken as a breakthrough moment that was laden with symbolism. But what it symbolized was not a fundamental alteration in Hollywood's use of Black actors, only an affirmation of what Poitier's career had always represented-his own status as the exception to the rule." What is this rule that Harris is referring to? It's the fact that he was the first of his race to win, and although a change, it felt more like a rare occurrence than something truly groundbreaking. His own victory was more progress for white people than Black. He was Hollywood's new prized pony, not dissimilar to an excited kid showing a good grade to their parents.

I feel as if we as a society like to feel comfortable in believing that Hollywood has fully moved past its problematic past, and to an extent, I feel that's a valid statement. Taking a look at Best Picture winners in the last decade, three notable movies stand out in terms of changing the very caucasian-based norms in the Academy Awards. First off, 12 Years a Slave, directed by Steve McQueen, is considered a total modern masterpiece. McQueen, one of the most notable filmmakers in the industry and someone of color (it is interesting to note his British descent), definitely marked a neat moment in Oscar history taking home Best Picture. Secondly, in 2016 (despite a minor mishap), Barry Jenkins' Moonlight, one of my all-time favorite movies, won the prestigious award as well. The film features a chiefly black cast (Mahershala Ali was the first Muslim to win an Oscar) and is once again directed by a black man. It also refreshingly doesn't focus on racism that the main characters probably faced elsewhere. It simply lets them be human, living life without fear of hatred in this nature, more touching on the complications of sexuality. Thirdly, and finally, Bong Joon-ho's Parasite, one of the most acclaimed films of our time, marked the first international film ever to win Best Picture. Joon-ho, who's Korean, took home Best Director himself (another groundbreaking achievement). So, what is my point essentially? I believe it is ignorant to say that the industry has made zero progress, with several examples of improvements in the treatment of minorities. Even with such a mediocre movie like Green Book winning (a film that lazily plays into white savior tropes, losing all potential in its interesting real-life premise), I truly stand by thinking that we are off to a better future in this sense, even if it's through wearying baby steps

Violence in Bonnie and Clyde

Keaton Marcus

Violence has always been a sensitive subject in the world of cinema. Whenever a film with a considerable amount releases, the media is always in a flurry to nitpick at every little detail. “It’s glorified brutality!” “Think about how this will influence your kids in the future!” “It’s only for shock value!” We’ve seen these types of criticisms thrown at the artform for as long as anyone can remember, and they’ve only intensified further in the modern day environment. When considering a film with constant depictions of violence, it’s essential to contemplate the director’s core intentions. Are they really making this solely for shock factor, or is there a lesson to be learned? Is there any sort of purpose behind all the blood or explosions or whatnot? Watching violent cinema from this specific lens can aid one in fully grasping what the artist truly wanted to achieve, and that is what’s sorely lacking in mainstream film criticism today. People are so eager to get headlines about how immature and dangerous these movies are, but the ironic thing is, their writing is as pointless as the art they claim is.

Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde was one of earlier examples of a movie that was absolutely bombarded with ridiculous comments about its seemingly glorified criminal carnage. Released in 1967 and taking major inspiration from the French New Wave, it’s not only a stylistic triumph but one of the most iconic movies to depict criminals as protagonists. The portrayal of the two star crossed killers is very clear cut. Penn is in no way making a contention that the two’s actions are to be emulated by the audiences watching, but they’re very evidently antiheroes. He gives this Robin Hood-esque twist to the couple, having them steal from the banks during a national depression and only show sympathy to the less fortunate. This doesn’t come with a life lesson, but the film makes little attempt to paint Bonnie and Clyde as terrible people. Moreover, it was incredibly compelling to root for the two to survive despite already knowing the inevitable outcome. The police were the antagonists in my head, and considering the discussion we had in class, others seemed to agree.

More specifically, what’s going on with the violence in this movie? It’s relatively brutal, and not just for the time. It doesn’t necessarily reach the level of blood spilled in so many gratuitous slasher movies (especially nowadays), but from the visceral shootouts between the Barrow Gang and the police to the undeniably aggressive conclusion, it’s a very intense film. Did it go to the point of truly shocking me? Definitely not. In my opinion, and contrary to what many thought at the time of its release, there’s a sense of taste and purpose in Penn’s depiction of violence. This is a film about the misadventures of an infamous, real-life gang and their encounters with the law. It’s not exactly for the faint of heart.

The ending is definitely an example of Penn’s tastefulness and artistic integrity. Even in the most “shocking” sequence, there is never a sacrifice of the movie’s unique approach to editing and cinematography. The rapid cuts between the faces of Bonnie and Clyde and their invisible enemy in the bushes not only provides this last sense of urgency before their demise, but also a commitment to the craft and the characters. There is most definitely a line of what should and shouldn’t be shown on-screen, and Bonnie & Clyde barely crosses it.

In fact, the only time where this film really felt gratuitous was during one of the first robberies the Barrow Gang committed. Barely escaping from the cops, a man jumps onto their car attempting to make a last ditch effort to stop them. Clyde, in a nervous and chaotic state, pulls out his gun and shoots him directly in the face. Penn makes no attempt to cut away, showing the facial wound in all its bloody glory. It felt violent for the sake of being violent. The scene didn’t bother me in the slightest, but it really brings the question of purpose back to the table. Was it necessary? Could Clyde have done a swerve to throw the man off the car instead of shooting him? Probably. Still, as someone so used to depravity in cinema, it wasn’t an issue.

In terms of other movies we saw as a class this year, Bonnie & Clyde is easily the most grotesque out of the bunch. Sidney Lumet’s The Pawnbroker is the most interesting, however. In the overall running time, there is barely any violence, yet the conclusion, even with the most minimal portrayal of it, happens to be the most disturbing scene I have seen all year. It’s a moment where Rod Steiger’s Nazerman impales his own hand on a metal rod, with blood slowly spilling as the credits roll. Contextually, this is a man who has lost all sense of emotion, and to bring back some manner of feeling, he does this. Lumet shows someone so desperate for any humanity that the character turns to self-harm to reclaim it. In direct contrast, Sergio Leone’s The Good, The Bad and the Ugly shows just the opposite. This is a shoot-em-up western that clearly inspired the likes of Quentin Tarantino, so it was easy to expect a decent amount of violence going in. Even still, it was a surprise for the time. It’s full of this inconsequential, no-holds-barred depiction of gun fights, and as Lumet turns to violence for Nazerman’s reclamation of humanity, Leone shows it as a dehumanization. Every character is reduced to their primal instincts, governed by greed and revenge. The violence is used to represent their animalistic intentions, and it’s definitely a noteworthy contrast between this and The Pawnbroker.

Bosley Crowther, a critic at The New York Times, jumped on the hate bandwagon for Bonnie and Clyde immediately. He dubbed the violence as “sensationalistic” and said the film “treats the hideous depredations of that sleazy, moronic pair as though they were full of fun and frolic.” First of all, the pair, and the gang itself, were known to be a charismatic bunch, living that twisted outlaw dream in larger-than-life fashion until they didn’t. Secondly, Penn smartly cuts the glamorization of their actions and lifestyle in general to an incredible low. It’s quickly established within the halfway point that Bonnie and Clyde are terrified of their own violence, and eventually pay with their lives in the end. Penn’s directorial attitude is far from the perfect, happy-go-lucky tone Crowther claimed the movie carried. It’s dark, depressing and engulfed with this profound sense of regret.

Pauline Kael, a critic (The New Yorker) who was one of the first to advocate for this revolutionary style of American moviemaking, describes my core perspective best in her essay on the film. She argues that the violence in Bonnie and Clyde has substance and a purpose, contrary to Crowther’s perspective. “It is a kind of violence that says something to us; it is something that artists must be free to use… Will we, as some people have suggested, be lured into imitating the violent crimes of Clyde and Bonnie because Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway are ‘glamorous’?…It’s difficult to see how, since the characters they played are horrified by it and ultimately destroyed by it.” The movie isn’t a saccharine, sensationalized portrayal of criminals, but a dilemma for audiences to choose whether to glorify these people. Crowther fell into the trap that Penn set, and that’s what’s so humorous about his ignorant attitude. The actors, fashion and cars are all pretty. The characters aren’t

Mother!: The Degradation of Nature for the Sake of God

Misanthropy: a generalized dislike, distrust, disgust, contempt, or hatred of the human species, human nature, or society.

By: Keaton Marcus

INTRODUCTION:

Pretentious, sexist and masturbatory, or ambitious and challenging masterpiece? Darren Aronofsky's Mother! (my personal favorite of his filmography) is a haunting, disturbing, and exceedingly well-crafted madhouse of a movie. Deeply rooted in biblical references and focused on creating horrifying anxiety within audiences, I believe this is a bold and beautiful artistic vision executed to the fullest. Completely unafraid of harsh critique and tomato-throwing moviegoers, this is ballsy and unfiltered filmmaking. Here, and forgive me if I'm not entirely correct, I will attempt to dissect this allegorical achievement and seek out every allusion I found while watching and researching the film.

THE CHARACTERS:

What's so fascinating about the movie is that every single character and plotline in it is a direct allusion to the Bible in some sense. For starters, I'd like to introduce readers to each of them. Javier Bardem's character, named Him, is very clearly a representation of the biblical God. Jennifer Lawrence plays Mother, supposed to represent the concept of Mother Nature as we humans invented. Respectively, Michelle Pfeiffer and Ed Harris' characters allude to Adam and Eve, and their children (played by the Gleeson brothers) are representative of Cain and Abel. Criticisms of the movie usually attack the lack of subtlety. In essence, the obviousness of its allusions. Although this argument is utterly valid, I would counter the fact this is essentially a crash course in the Bible. Revisionist as it may be, what else were you expecting Aronofsky to do to make it more mysterious?

JAVIER BARDEM - HIM:

That neatly leads me back to Him, Bardem's character. So why does this man represent God? What makes me think my interpretation is solid enough? Well, disregarding his evident supernatural strength, I found that the biblical God is fascinated with being worshipped by people. Much like this, Bardem is constantly prioritizing being loved over caring for his wife, Mother Nature. He's a selfish, egotistical, power-hungry child in desperate need of perpetual adoration. His wife, and everyone around them, give him incredible amounts of affection, but nothing satisfies. He must always have more. The Biblical God created Earth, but for what other purpose besides housing his very worshippers? Essentially, as the Bible describes, his creation of this planet is a feeding tube for selfishness. Everyone that eventually begins to invade Javier Bardem and Jennifer Lawrence's house doesn't bother him at all. And this lack of distaste for the intrusion on their privacy is rooted in his need to be celebrated. Any hints of his kindness are only given to those who worship him, and he lets everyone stay in their home because of this. In the infamous and uncompromisingly cruel third act, their baby is pulled from Lawrence's hand into a massive mob of his worshippers. His own child's neck snaps because of the pressure, and he does nothing to stop it. The intoxication and entitlement are disgusting to watch and entirely intentional on Aronofsky's part.

JENNIFER LAWRENCE - MOTHER NATURE

On a kinder note, let me discuss Jennifer Lawrence's character. As mentioned, she is an on-screen representation of Mother Nature. Her house, which has a life of its own, also represents Mother Nature or Mother Earth. As shown throughout the film, Lawrence and her house are connected. Their hearts beat synchronously, and as more and more intruders disrespect the both of them, she snaps. Surrounded by little love from her husband and followers, this is a story of the abusive relationship we humans have had with our planet. The constant conflict and unrest between Mother Nature and God are only inevitable. The former is content with being lonely, uninterrupted, and overall, living a life of tranquility. To love and be with Bardem's God forever in a serene fashion. However, God has other plans. He is so obsessed with others surrounding him that the two have entirely contrasting values. It's chaos for her and absolute Heaven for him. One could describe the relationship here as a pyramid of abusiveness. God needs people, people need Mother Nature, and Mother Nature needs God. It's cyclical, a form of never-ending pain and dissatisfaction. However, the pyramid does not give back to Lawrence's character. She provides for everyone and gets nothing in return. God is worshipped; she is stripped of her humanity. Overall, this is illustrative of our abuse of the Earth, resulting in issues such as climate change. We have been provided with a beautiful planet, and it's slowly being destroyed by humankind.

MICHELLE PFEIFFER AND ED HARRIS - ADAM AND EVE:

Now, Pfeiffer and Harris play a husband and wife who are the first uninvited visitors to God and Mother Nature's home. To connect them to the biblical Adam and Eve, they are essentially the first people other than God and Mother Nature to walk upon Earth or their house. Yes, it's pretentious and out there, but also intriguing. God invites them in unconditionally but tells them multiple times not to go into his private study, which hides his sacred stone. Much to his distaste, they don't follow orders and are consistently tempted to intrude. Eventually, the two break in there and destroy the stone, which is Bardem's very livelihood. Aronofsky intended this to be an allusion to the Adam and Eve story where God repeatedly tells them not to eat from the sacred tree, despite the two doing just that later on. Their two sons, played by the talented Gleeson brothers, are Cain and Abel. Domnhall Gleeson, who's supposed to play Cain, is poisoned by jealousy because Ed Harris' character didn't get as much in the will left. He viciously attacks Abel, or what's supposed to be Abel, and their story is just them fighting. As in the Bible, Cain murders his brother, thus a direct allegory.

FURTHER DISCUSSION ON THE THIRD ACT:

The first two acts generally consist of the intruder after intruder continuously bustling into God and Mother Nature's house. As the chaotic night proceeds, God becomes exceedingly pleased with the increased amount of worship he receives. Mother Nature feels tormented and disrespected, and justifiably so. Mentioned briefly before, the third act is extremely triggering. Violent and consisting of absolutely zero glimmers of hope while depicting graphic abuse of Jennifer Lawrence's character and her newborn child. I am entirely in the understanding of one's unbridled hate for the movie. I've seen superbly written reviews trashing it. It's a sick piece of art, but there is much to admire from my perspective. Thematically, the final 30 minutes is a giant, no-holds-barred, visual commentary on our Mother Nature abuse how we as a species have been so evil and unkind to something so giving and resourceful. It is devastatingly tragic to witness and made me sob in a genuine, raw fashion. Bardem's character (who's a poet, FYI) suddenly gains immense fame overnight because of "inspiration," as he describes it himself. This "inspiration" is a product of exploiting his wife by getting her pregnant, inspiring him in a sense to create humanity.

THE WORSHIPPING OF HIM DESPITE HER:

At the point of Lawrence's pregnancy, humanity has zero respect for her. She is continuously trodden over and intruded upon while her husband gets unrealistic amounts of appreciation. She is beaten up, sexually harassed, and nearly raped, followed by the brutal sacrifice of her son. The lines of what should be shown on-screen are crossed occasionally. Still, I legitimately think this is Aronofsky's genius introspection on what humanity has done to Earth, meant with more passion than exploitation. As divided as we are, society does love religion in general. Whatever God one believes (if they choose to consider one), we are obsessed with divinity. Our relationship with Mother Nature, however, is one-sided and vile. We give so much to God that we forget and take the maternal force that houses us for granted. The hatred for humanity that the film so clearly carries is horrifying but readily justifiable. Gluttonous and giving to the conceptualization of God rather than the actuality of our planet, we're monsters in this sense. Every single one of us is guilty, and this movie screams in your face that judgment day is the only silver lining.

One Perfect Scene: Wanna Fight? - Only God Forgives

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

This post will undoubtedly be the toughest one I've had to do so far in my tiny new wave of essays, and that is because this film is the only one I didn't love out of the several that I've studied recently. The one in question is Nicolas Winding Refn's Only God Forgives, his critically panned follow-up to Drive, marking a second collaboration with Ryan Gosling. It was booed at Cannes; critics rejected it, audiences threw it off as a repulsive, misogynistic, overly violent neon-laden nightmare with pretty visuals. To an extent, I agree with these criticisms. This is by no means a flawless movie. The characters are unlikable, shallow shells of human beings. The thin plot is stretched out to an insufferable 90 minutes, held up by surrealistic visuals that only sometimes work. Gosling doesn't even honestly give an actual performance per se. His acting generally consists of staring into nothingness, languishing in reflective silence. However, there's still plenty to appreciate. I was stunned by the use of shadows and set design, intrigued and interested in its thematic ambitions, and in some way, supportive of the more supernatural aspect in the film. It's a technical masterpiece, and that is mainly exemplified in the "Wanna Fight?" sequence, which in my opinion, is one of the greatest moments in cinematic history. This will be the scene that I will attempt to break down today, sparing the loads of negatives that I also have with this exciting movie.

THE SET-UP:

Let me quickly start by introducing some context into why this entire sequence is occurring. Julian, the protagonist, dreams of challenging God himself, and Chang, the character opposing him, is Winding Refn's embodiment of such. Julian is obsessed with using his hands, fighting without weapons, and this is his chance to do so. The scene begins with Julian asking Chang, "Wanna Fight?" to which he nods. The two head to his boxing ring, and Julian gets ready for the aggression. He walks with his "girlfriend" into the arena, and that's when the entire mood of the scene drastically switches. Chang stands in the middle ominously, looking into a void of nothingness as the camera slowly revolves around him as Julian walks up opposite him. Cliff Martinez's haunting, electrically charged, and persistent music sets the stage as cinematographer Larry Smith over-dramatizes every single mannerism, giving it all an operatically dazzling spirit. The effective use of slow-motion lets Julian's walk pan out for an extended, climactic amount of time. The score pulses, the camera spins in circles gradually. Winding Refn's battle has started with flawless direction.

FISTS AT THE READY:

So, the fight is almost able to start. Julian and Chang stand across from each other, and slowly but surely, Julian's fists begin to rise into a fighting position. The music will almost hit its climax, desperate to release in euphoric, cacophonous madness. The camera holds on to Julian's fighting stance, and then the punches begin after a crisply gorgeous cut to the overhead of the two. Chang seems supernaturally untouchable, reinforcing the theoretical concept of man challenging God. Julian can't land a single blow to his superior enemy as Chang fiercely defends. He's stunned, stumbling over, becoming weaker and weaker with each attempt to attack. Then, Julian's villainous mother Crystal walks into the fight to observe her pitiful son beaten to a bloodied pulp. Julian finally falls to the ground. He's given up. He's failed. Crystal looks disappointed in her cold, detached grimace. Chang mimicks Julian's initial fighting stance, turning it into a position of victory and dominance, intercut by the visual motif of a boxing statue in another room that Julian has tried to imitate throughout the film. Here, Chang realizes it as Julian lies pathetically on the floor, defeated.

THE FINISH:

Surprisingly, Julian struggles to get up and desperately tries to land more punches, swinging left and right. Chang's fists hit at unnatural, terrifying speed with loud cracks every time. More cuts to the statue are employed as Chang continues to dominate the fight, getting Julian to the ground once more. Crystal almost seems embarrassed that she gave birth to him, standing with a shocked look at the sight. She walks off. Julian lies, now unconscious, legs and arms splayed out on the floor. After staring down at his victim, Chang leaves him knocked out, exiting the building after Crystal. The music beautifully begins to subside, getting quieter by the second until everything stops. God has won, and the imitation of the otherworldly, represented by Julian, has quickly and efficiently been eliminated. This entire sequence is without question one of the most incredible sound and set design, music, and cinematography exercises. Each technical aspect works in tandem to create an atmosphere that gives audiences literal chills. It has everything I love in a great movie moment: a build-up that takes its time, a thrilling climax, and a cathartic pay-off with profound meaning. Superb directing and something I will always look up to as I work my way into the filmmaking world.

The Social Network: The Writing of Mark Zuckerberg

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

David Fincher and Aaron Sorkin's The Social Network is a film that I watched twice several years ago to appreciate it on re-watch recently fully. I had always thought it was "good," but never had it impacted me as much as it did a few nights ago. The nearly universal opinion on this movie is that it's an absolute masterpiece, and I have zero regrets about joining that bandwagon. One significant aspect that makes the film so exceptional is its timelessness. Typically, one would expect a biopic to rely on recency bias. In this case, the success of Facebook, but this work of art transcends expectations and ultimately holds up today. Obviously, at its core, it tells the tale of Mark Zuckerberg and his immediate rise to fame but peeling the layers reveals so much more that may have led to it exceeding initial predictions. This is a movie about obsession, Shakespearean betrayal, the lack of emotional intelligence, relationships, and how these themes conform to our mainly digital age. It uses social media as a building block for far more profound meanings, and that's the genius of Fincher's direction and Sorkin's unforgettable screenwriting. To further my observation about how extraordinarily unique this is from other biopics, I will focus more on the actual character of Zuckerberg rather than the actual person, facilitating its originality.

WHAT IS A DISTINGUISHABLE PERSONALITY?

We, as humans, all want to feel different. Face it, readers, we have a hungry drive to be anything special or unique from the general population. Adhering to normality and banality are things everyone fears, and having the spotlight put on you is something we may dream of. This is what our main character, Mark Zuckerberg, is desperately infatuated with—not being the same as everybody else. The entire roots of the screenplay and film itself are built upon the idea of this promising concept. One of the most extensive parts to take away from the whole experience is how striving for individuality can affect friends, family, or even enemies. It's thrown at audiences from the very first scene intentionally. Zuckerberg explains to his girlfriend (who's about to dump him) that he wants to distinguish himself from the students and the public around him. He doesn't just need to be clever or even a genius; he needs to change the world, and that's what he does. Mark doesn't have inherently malevolent intentions, but in his greed, he alienates the person talking to him, and therefore, he's kind of an asshole unintentionally. He can't take a simple jab or loss, and when someone gets to him, it's time to insult or hurt them back. Remember, Mark must be dominant, and getting demeaned by another person is absolute hell for him. Being a bully to others is how this man stays in control, and as a result, he comes off as a pretty unapproachable human being.

NEGATIVE OR POSITIVE?

One would expect to conclude that Fincher and Sorkin would portray Zuckerberg in a wholly negative light, but they hurtle over these tropes once again. Although his actions are never justified, it's the comparisons of those around him that topsides expectations. For example, let's take the impeccably directed and edited hacking scene, set to a mind-boggling soundtrack by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. Zuckerberg, drunk and impulsive after being dumped by Erica, compare women to farm animals on his blog before proceeding to create a website that ranks female students based on hotness. He's objectifying the opposite sex, using them for his gain, but editors Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall cut to various instances of similar events around the school. These include women objectifying themselves and being shipped around like the animals he compared them to. It's these seemingly meaningless cuts that portray this group's mentality of bad behavior. Mark isn't a good person, but that doesn't mean that the people surrounding him are perfect. Conditions build character, and the environment around Mark is what, unfortunately, influenced him to the point of poor decision-making here.

DEVELOPING CHARACTERS/RELATIONSHIPS:

Generally, people, including me, pay to see movies that take time to develop the main character and the ones that surround them. Their motivations, traits, and past are all critical things to crafting someone compelling, and that is what The Social Network so brilliantly avoids. Mark himself is the only person in the film that we know anything substantial about, and what would usually be a criticism should be turned into praise here. The rest of the characters, mainly Eduardo and Sean, are treated as mere objects. Mark uses the two of them as chess pieces in his own game of future success, and his little ploy works out in the end. He becomes the youngest billionaire on the planet, and he wouldn't have without his toys. The relationship between Eduardo and Mark is supposedly a friendship initially, but is it? Every conversation they have, regardless of the fights, is dunked in artificiality. The basis of these talks always seems to be about Mark using him to achieve something for his gain. But it isn't only him. He manipulates and uses the Winklevoss twins, agreeing to help them only betray and capitalize on their original idea. No, it isn't strictly plagiarism, but it's a very extreme form of inspiration. Nonetheless, it leads to an all-out war between the three. Ultimately what I'm getting at here is that all supporting characters and usual archetypes are treated less as human beings and more as items in the journey of accomplishment. However, I would argue that the Sean mentioned above Parker has somewhat of a character arc, but it's kept to a generic minimum.

THE ENDING:

Mark has been no less than a crook for the entire film, using toxic administration and ignorance to control anyone that cared about him. Underdevelopment in surrounding characters and immense focus on only his perspective has made that so. After the long and arduous legal battle with Eduardo and the Winklevoss twins, however, everything changes. Sorkin gives him a subtle sign of development when he decides to send a friend request to Erica, his now ex-girlfriend. It may not seem like much, and she may never accept it due to how he treated her before, but it's a small step to the greater good. He's reaching out to someone he feels for, and that's likely the most, and perhaps only, human thing he's done during the entire film. Maybe Mark hasn't fully learned how to become a better person in general, but the environment he had recently been in (the court) has molded him once again, just like the college has. Recall my point about how "conditions shape character." I believe Fincher and Sorkin have fully exemplified this message with the conclusion of their masterpiece. There's something beautiful to seeing a man who previously treated others with such malice switch to a never before seen empathetic side of personality.

Under the Silver Lake: A Critique of the Film Industry

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

A24 and David Robert Mitchell's Under the Silver Lake, unfortunately, buried and forgotten after its release only to gain somewhat of a cult status recently, is a film that I will always fiercely defend. Half of the critics and audiences who viewed the movie smashed it with seething critiques. Yep, it's pretentious, messy, hammily performed, and runs at a criminally overlong 140 minutes, and that's precisely the point. Intentionally self-aware indulgence is a technique Mitchell uses to alienate and even irritate audiences without enough willpower, and that's what caused such polarizing reactions. This mind-boggling work of art is about...a lot, stuffing as much as possible in only one feature. It employs commentaries on Hollywood, pop culture, conspiracy, sex, the degradation of women, the hierarchy of class, mental illness, homelessness, obsession, and a lot of other mindfucking material.

LACK OF DIRECTION:

This film consists of all the themes I just mentioned, but it's mainly focused on the Hollywood entertainment industry. It has an infatuation with how the industry affects both people working in it and the culture around it. Under the Silver Lake concentrates on Sam, a fragile, lonely, lost, and voyeuristic young man who searches for purpose and any sense of idea to latch on to, getting caught in an absurd conspiracy along the way. He fills his emotional void and lack of direction in life through casual sex with various women, looking for clues anywhere possible (including the television series Wheel of Fortune). He desires anything meaningful to do in his whimsical, banal existence, and that is exactly what the mystery of the film brings him. Although the movie is more or less ambiguous on the matter, he likely kills dogs for a hobby too. Ultimately, Sam represents everything wrong with the younger generations today, and probably a person everyone in the same age group can relate to (in some minor sense). This lack of identity perpetuates his actions, with the movie also functioning as an examination of existentialism in Millennials. However, Sam isn't exactly a sympathetic character. He lies, probably murders animals, and has zero respect for anyone but himself. His significant flaws as a person make the journey into surrealistic Los Angeles that much more compelling.

THE CONSPIRACY:

The actual conspiracy/mystery itself studies a secret organization that hides coded messages in movies, music, and television, which again leads back to the critique of Hollywood. The men behind all the messages entomb themselves with women in belief that they will ascend to wealthier heaven and be regarded as literal Gods in the next generations. It seems unrealistic and too batshit crazy for its sound, but ponder this for a moment. Cults such as Scientology are pretty out of their mind as well. All the insanity seems to connect to the real world if one stops and connects the dots for a moment. The movie presents an industry fixated on controlling what people do and how people act, enamored in public opinion and legacy. It forces audiences to see that the most influential people in the world aren't always on our side. They rarely are. With the money and control, they have, taking them down has been nearly impossible. The heinous conspiracies of Epstein, Weinstein, the sexual abuse in Boston churches, and many more are simply real-life examples of what wealthier people can get up to without much consequence. Under the Silver Lake merely expands on that and turns these crimes to a far higher volume.

TURNING THE GENRE UPSIDE DOWN:

Usually, one would expect something big and grand to happen after our main character solves this mystery, but Mitchell subverts our expectations and topsides them. Instead, despite Sam's theory ending up correct, his life isn't significantly changed or affected in any way. Perhaps he has the satisfaction of achieving something complex, but it ends without true meaning. He kills the man who's been hiding clues in pop culture, discovers the cult, and even attempts to save the women who they had kidnaped. However, it turns out that she didn't even want to be saved at all. It's too late, and she's accepted her fate, devastating Sam. This isn't your typical mystery film, without any real pay-off or catharsis provided to viewers, and that's understandably enough to drive people away from admiring it all. On the other hand, it is a complete and complex deconstruction of how the line between seemingly fictional and real conspiracies can blur.

SOLUTION, NOT TRUTH:

What's worth taking a peek at is the journey Sam took to solve the mystery mentioned above. The manners in which he discovered the clues are over-the-top and ridiculous, much like this entire movie, and as silly as it may seem, it provides us with a more profound message. What could this deeper meaning be conveying? I would argue that the film is saying knowing every little detail is impossible. For example, we'll never know the full extent of real-life conspiracies, exploitation, or truly apprehend the people who control what we casually consume every day. This possible criminal activity may be solved as a whole, but the minute roadmap that led to these will never be entirely uncovered. People may criticize this argument for being hopeless and even nihilistic, but it's quite the opposite. It ties back into how Sam ends up after solving everything. Nothing's changed. He's discovered everything, but no solution to his life issues was provided. The movie is telling viewers not to follow in the path of this man, so obsessed with finding the entirety that he forgot what he wanted to do in the first place. The conspiracy became a merely temporary distraction from his awful boredom, but nothing more extraordinary.

WHAT WE WATCH:

I assume almost every person reading this is a self-proclaimed movie buff. We aren't the same, but there is one universal interest that binds us, and that's the love of cinema. Under the Silver Lake is no doubt a product of the industry it criticizes, but that does not stop it from absolutely destroying the very world we loved. Corrupt people have influenced so many movies I adore in positions of power, some brought down and others not. I keep watching them, but it feels strange, perhaps even wrong. Whether Harvey Weinstein produced it, Roman Polanski directed it, or Kevin Spacey acted in it, it's difficult to separate the art from the artist. Anyway, putting it on a silver platter, this movie that I'm analyzing is principally saying that the art we consume is affected in some way by horrible human beings. It's no doubt harsh and shocking in a wholly negative sense, but it's entirely correct in another. Every day, we support evil, and it has become impossible to stop. This is a thought-provoking, incredibly underrated masterpiece, with so much to say and many thematic layers. It left me pondering what I had just experienced after viewing and already made me want to re-watch it multiple times.

500 Days of Summer: The Most Important Love Story

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

Marc Webb's 500 Days of Summer is a film that I only saw recently, before watching it multiple times in just the next couple of weeks. Although it has garnered some serious popularity, this romantic comedy has more or less been forgotten nowadays. Debates still mainly remain on whether Tom was the actual villain in the story all along, and viewers cheering for him is a perpetuation of toxicity in romance, but the fire has generally gone out. Above all, I genuinely think this is one of the most critical commentaries on love, consisting of relatable storytelling that I could easily relate and connect to. Its remarks on finding "the one" and questions of the reality in fate are surprisingly potent and complex, something one would not expect in a film that seems like your run-of-the-mill rom-com.

WHY LOVE?

So, love stories. They're one of the most popular elements used in the world of cinema, for better or for worse. Even if the film isn't specifically romantic, there's usually some love story sewn in between the lines of the story. Why is this? Eventually, many people experience a sudden feeling of joy and euphoria in their life, leading to the fact that this concept is almost universally personal. Audiences like to see people fall in love on-screen. It can bring them joy, sadness, relatability, or anything in between. It triggers a sensation ultimately that provides entertainment, similar to what a select group of viewers feels while watching heavy dramas or fun action adventures. Anyway, there has been a countless amount released. The majority of them are unfortunately trash, so narrowing it down, 500 Days of Summer is one of the only movies in the genre that I remember anything from. Memorability alone is a criminal understatement when talking about this movie. It crushed me with so many various, contrasting emotions that the whole experience was challenging to process. Positively and negatively, it's one of the most important movies to me, and I'll never forget my first watch.

TOM AND SUMMER:

500 Days of Summer is the story of Tom, who grew up as an average, or even below-average kid. His looks aren't extraordinary, and his social insecurities don't exactly make him stand out from the crowd. He isn't confident enough to be flirtatious or successful at dating in general, so he turned to romantic movies as faux comfort as a child. Summer, who's the actual love interest in the film, grew up disliking this concept. She never truly grasped the idea of discovering passionate romance with someone else. As I'm sure many readers can relate to, she was likely the type of person who couldn't care less about the schmaltzy, fake world of romantic comedies. This movie is an entire deconstruction of the cliches in a typical genre film, dismantling the normality in the general structure used in boy meets girl cinema.

"THE ONE"

For starters, let's take a glance at the mythical notion of finding "the one" briefly mentioned earlier. It argues that some time or another, you will find an ideal romantic match for yourself. Sounds fantastic, right? Not really. It's a pretty selfish and one-sided idea to shove into your head, putting an inhumane amount of pressure on the other person to conform to your desires. You are forcing someone else to fill your emotional void to satisfaction without much say on the other side of the relationship. This movie strikes down everything most of us thought about this scheme, and although painful, I was shocked by the sheer honesty of it all. Tom immediately decides that Summer is "the one" based on similarity in their respective tastes of music and movies. In retrospect, this sounds ridiculous, right? Because of some minuscule bond between them, he so quickly determines that she must be the only one for him. Tom's cynical yet logical little sister states it best. "Just because some cute girl likes the same bizarro crap you do...That doesn't make her your soulmate." Of course, already struck by the instant feeling of love, Tom brushes her statement off and continues his quest in an attempt to date Summer. Summer specifically lets Tom know near the beginning of their relationship that she doesn't want anything too serious, but they're meant to be, right? Tom has chosen, and that's what the film so smartly critiques.

SYMPATHY FOR TOM:

The fundamental aspect of questioning while watching this movie is the sheer sympathy we feel for Tom. It's become a decently popular opinion not to side with him due to further revelations about the film, but I honestly take a more neutral approach. I don't think either Tom or Summer should be considered the bad guy, even if his stance on love reeks of toxicity. I believe this because of this man's childhood. He grew up knowing very little affection, and the world of romantic comedies that he was sucked into almost brainwashed him. Sure, it filled the void of comfort he so desperately needed. Still, it also perpetuated the idea of "the one," which is so incredibly vital to shake out of your head while heading into romantic territory. Considering this observation, it isn't a bad thing to be empathetic towards Tom. We all have a fantasy of finding someone who flawlessly caters to our hopes and dreams, and it can be troubling to flush it out. Summer never necessarily wronged Tom, so why does he feel such betrayal? It all comes back to the fact that he had an inherent sense of immoral mentality, and when he finds that Summer doesn't want to be anything more than friends, it's an awful feeling. It isn't her fault; it isn't his. It's the world. The messages movies teach children growing up without any other education about romance, with this movie functioning as a searing tear-down of all this virulent inherency.

EXPECTATIONS VS. REALITY

Likely one of my favorite cinematic moments of all time is the "reality vs. expectations" sequence near the film's end. Tom, who has already been dumped by Summer, is invited by her to a rooftop party. The screen splits as he walks up the stairs of her apartment. One side shows reality, or what's happening, and the other depicts his expectations or what he desires. Instantly, we can see significant contrasts in the two halves: the real one, harsher, and the expectations one, more magical and otherworldly. I would argue that the sequence is a brilliant dissertation on unrealistic expectations when it comes to love. We, as human beings, always want to predict something special will happen to take us out of the unfortunate mundanity in our lives, but it rarely comes true. That's what makes this scene so devastatingly true and pure. Reminiscing this movie now, I cannot stress enough how vital its messages are to living a good life. I'm self-aware that I sound like some incel who needs to touch a singular blade of grass, but this film is a free life coach.

La La Land: The Sacrifice of Love for Dreams

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

Damien Chazelle is one of the hottest young directors working in Hollywood today. His second feature film, La La Land, proved to be a second consecutive masterpiece after the behemoth of his debut, Whiplash. It garnered universal praise from nearly everyone who saw it, was a massive success at the box office and the Academy Awards, and overall, became an instant modern classic. On the surface, one can inherently view this as a fun, if simplistic musical romance about the ferocious chasing of dreams. There isn't anything wrong with that take, but it's obvious. I'm not here to explain to readers that this film is the most profoundly layered piece of cinema ever to be witnessed, but I am indeed here to provide new, perhaps more exciting interpretations to this gloriously joyful comfort movie.

CONTRASTS OF IDEALIZATION AND MUNDANITY:

Chazelle opens the film with a criminally hot LA summer day on the highway, almost entirely blocked by traffic. Horns are honking, people are getting antsy in their seats, and it's ultimately just irritating to our characters. It's universally personal as well. This feeling of being hopelessly stuck on a busy road, unable to get out, coupled with scorching weather. However, then Chazelle abruptly begins a dance number, commencing the contrast with the idealization of an otherwise crummy day. People start frolicking and singing jovially, tapping their feet on top of cars, with artificially bright smiles plastered on their faces. It's the ideal, perfect world that we turn to during a nightmare (traffic), making beauty out of what we would typically perceive as banal. Would this happen in the real world? No. This is left for the fantastical world of musicals, where absolutely anything can occur. Just when it seems like nothing could go wrong, this lovely sequence is cut short by reality. Everyone stops dancing, returns to their cars, and Chazelle reveals Mia and Sebastian in their separate vehicles. This mundane reality that viewers know all too well is a clear opposition to the illusions of dreams. The constant clash between ideals and reality is ever-present with our two main characters in the next few scenes. Mia is an aspiring actress who's stuck frantically searching for auditions while working at a coffee shop. Sebastian is a struggling musician who dreams of opening a club but is ultimately thrown into the reality that people care less and less about jazz these days. 

SWITCHES IN MUSIC AND COSTUME:

Even the actual songs, which make up most of the film's first act, tell stories of aspirations and hopes that may never come into realization. The music here primarily represents the fierce hunger they both have to accomplish something beautiful, perhaps a fight against the cruel reality we all live in. This act is more of a glamorization of Los Angeles than a focus on actualization, which comes into play later. Viewers who dub the entire film masturbatory of its setting should note that there's a significant switch in musical numbers and costume design as we head into the second and third acts. There are rarely any songs in the second act, more made up of long conversations between our main characters. This chronicles the shift in Mia and Sebastian's respective mentalities. In the beginning, it was all about finding what they wanted, and now, it's about the techniques they will employ to achieve them. Now, onto the dressing side of things. Overall, this film uses color excellently, but it's mainly with Mia's clothing. In the first act, her entire wardrobe is bright and exuberant, screaming ambition. As the film chugs along, her clothing gradually becomes darker and darker until it's completely black in the final scene. It feels more realistic and grounded, another significant distinction from the style before. This big transformation in attire represents Mia's dreams becoming a reality, and although we should be glad, it's also the inevitable end to the romance she had with Sebastian. These two people initially met because they shared needs for dreams, yet they part when they accomplish them. It's no question that they loved each other, but it does bring to question if their relationship was generally based on their mutual desire to succeed.

THE BEGINNING OF DREAMS IS THE END OF ROMANCE:

Sacrifice to achieve what one wants in life is a present theme in this movie, and it is accentuated the most at the turning point of the second act. For Mia, it's not waiting for a great script to come along to her; it's writing one herself. On the other hand, Sebastian plays music that he doesn't like at concerts for good money until he has the wealth to open a club. Unfortunately, the chase for their dreams tears their originally unbreakable bond apart. They don't do the stuff they love together, seeing each other less consistently before one argument finally drives Mia away. The jealousy, prioritization of dreams in the relationship, and divisive scheduling tumble the building blocks that constructed the admiration in the first place. The only way to truly become what they've always aspired to be is to leave each other and cease the complementary support that comes with their relationship. I would argue that this adds a sense of realism that we don't commonly see with musicals, grounding the film extraordinarily well.

FINALITY THROUGH REMORSEFUL ACCOMPLISHMENT:

The actual ending (which is one of my all-time favorites in cinema) looks at the fulfillment of Mia and Sebastian's dreams. Mia lives the life of Hollywood fame as a celebrated actress, married happily with a child. Sebastian has his jazz club, and saying business is good would be an understatement. These are the lives our protagonists have lusted over from the very start, but is there inevitable regret to their comforting happiness? I would firmly say that Chazelle intended for the conclusion to be severely bittersweet, an amalgamation of joy and sorrow. Before the final moment of the film, Mia has a dream sequence of another life. This life still consists of the success she has in reality, but it's with Sebastian. It feels authentic, pure, and bereft of the certain hollowness she feels now. Then, we have the melancholic final shot of the two glancing at each other in Sebastian's club before they both ease out a slight smile. It's a smile of acceptance for sure, but also of painful remorse. Things could have gone differently, and the chance has been missed.

One Perfect Scene: Gassed - Midsommar

By: Keaton Marcus

Ari Aster's Midsommar, a controversial and provocative relationship drama masked by the cruel face of horror, was released two years ago to polarizing responses from audiences despite acclaim from critics. The infamous opening sequence, consisting of an intricate setup building until a harrowingly climactic inciting incident, is what I will attempt to break down here. Viewers look at these first 10 minutes and examine nothing but the most surface-level observations, missing the critical details that make it all so compelling and terrifying. These small but essential aspects construct true filmmaking mastery and spotlight what every aspiring director should study.

MURAL, LULL, SHOCK:

Subverting expectations right from the opening shot, Aster principally spoils his entire movie in the beginning. The entrance consists of a colorful, passionately drawn mural chronicling this whole movie in a rudimentary fashion. Then, the drawing doors open, giving way to various shots of peaceful, calming environments that place viewers in a state of unsettling comfortability. We have entered this fairy tale, and it's all shown visually. Reminiscent of desktop screens, audiences get their very temporary room to breathe. Several gorgeous shots populate the screen, coupled with a lulling, relaxing Swedish folk song. Then, seemingly out of oblivion comes a sharp ringing noise, alerting audiences and jolting them awake. Aster then brings us to a city filled with artificiality and houses, cutting closer and closer to our first genuine setting with each transition. Editor Lucian Johnston and cinematographer Pawel Pogorzelski work with the director to slam us to the Ardor residence. A woman leaves a voice message as we pan over to her sleeping parents. Everything seems just fine, but once again, in a disconcerting and troubling manner. Something is off, and we are entirely unable to guess.

THE DANCE OF TENSION:

Then, we enter what I would like to dub a "dance of tension," swaying back and forth between casual normalcy and sheer mental and emotional stress. We cut to DANI, our main character, frantically checking her laptop after getting a disturbing message from her bipolar sister, TERRI. The E-Mail reads: "I can't anymore - everything's black - mom and dad are coming too - goodbye." Unsettling, right? But not too in your face that it relieves all tension from arresting viewers. With no response after several attempts to get a hold of her, Dani continues to panic internally. Notice how in only one minute of our protagonist being on-screen, Aster has effortlessly created an incredibly compelling drama more effectively than most filmmakers can do in an entire film. We are already shaking in our seats, unsure of what will occur next. Dani rings CHRISTIAN, her boyfriend, introduced in the next few shots, unable to control her emotions. For now, the camera holds on to Dani, attempting to mask her inner anxiety on the phone call. This is an exceptional filmmaking choice, providing an intimate moment between audiences and this unstable woman. After her call with him, she rings a girlfriend and talks to her for the next couple of minutes, venting and worrying. Then, Aster relieves us for a moment and cuts to Christian sitting at a restaurant, bickering with his friends. He feels trapped in their relationship, desperate but hesitant to break up due to the fragile condition she is in at the moment. Once more, this movie gives us room to breathe, but it never drops the tense atmosphere entirely, always keeping a certain sense of unease. 

INCITING INCIDENT:

Then, Dani CALLS Christian, and he picks up, unaware of what will come next. Her piercing wails from the other end immediately shock viewers into a state of absolute and utter arrest. Something horrible is happening. The cries are quickly cut out by siren-mimicking violins. Aster subjects viewers to several horrifyingly long takes of inside the Ardor residence from the very beginning of the film. Firefighters gradually climb the stairs with caution, walking into the bedroom that consists of Dani's now-deceased parents. The body bags zip, and we get sucked into a steady, smooth pull-in to Terri, with her mouth crudely covered by a pipe and some duck tape, vomit spattered all over. She had committed suicide and murdered her two parents. I love how Pogorzelski and Aster's camera is constantly moving, taking us someplace unknown, almost easing us into inevitable terror. Instead of static after static, which is evidently what a more amateurish director would rely on, this film flips that entire convention upside down, traveling with each shot. The flow is smooth and expertly crafted, and another detail that made this whole sequence so shockingly brilliant. The sluggish, indolent pace of the reveal of Terri builds to a plateau that I have honestly never seen done in a superior fashion before. In both Hereditary and this, Aster and his lead actresses have captured a sense of authentic agony that carves a deep, black hole in our chests while watching. 

THE CRY:

Christian, uneasy and unwilling, torpidly walks down the freezing street, hearing Dani's manic, animal screams from inside her apartment. The music embodies the sudden depression and hopelessness our main character is feeling. It's a deep sorrow that can only be realized with tragedy. As the camera pulls in from a wide of Christian holding Dani's limp, shuddering, and wailing body in his arms, the score begins to shift. Notice Christian's facial expressions. They are ones of regret and remorse and the realization that there is no ending the relationship anymore. He is trapped. The soundtrack is more violent, painful, and horrible. Drums and violins commence creating the sounds of pure evil, but still in a depressive sense. As Dani shrieks, look at the faint hints of siren lights tinting the window pane. It's a distinct symbol that the trauma Dani faces will always haunt her, flawlessly placed by Aster. The camera emerges into the snowstorm, and the now blaring music cuts out Dani's cries. We have entered complete chaos as the title credits roll.

A24 PRESENTS hits the screen and officially throws audiences into literal hell.

The Ponderous Remorse in I'm Thinking of Ending Things

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

Charlie Kaufman's I'm Thinking of Ending Things, released last year, is widely known now as his most divisive work. Have pretentiousness and self-indulgence gone too far? Or was this the rawest form of genius moviegoers have witnessed in a long time? I would stand far more with the latter opinion. Of course, it's easily understandable to critique the film for being excessive, but wow, this is a crushingly brutal examination of the depressing concept of mortal existence. We all die, and patches in life accentuate the idea of our transient lives. Kaufman, known for his existentialist themes, has likely made his best and most emotionally involving portrait of this feeling yet. Now, delving into this confounding experience will be a tricky bit, so let's get to it.

TWO VERSIONS OF ONE:

Even if all of the movies weren't completely clear on first viewing, one aspect always stood out to me as apparent. There are two versions of one of the main characters, which happens to be Jake. The janitor, who plays like the older one grounded in his terror of death, imagines himself younger and more attractive. The youthful version is the one we see more often, as he's a part of the general plotline of the film. Kaufman hints that these two seemingly divergent beings are the exact several times throughout. In contrast to how the novel portrays it, Kaufman cuts between the janitor's banal life and the main storyline consistently enough for audiences to realize a connection. However, it's never directly said to us, only slightly hinted for us to assume, a respectful filmmaking practice. Through simultaneous and concurrent timelines, the janitor and younger Jake's stories flow together during the film's running time. While contemplating his existence in the school's dull halls, it almost seems like he imagines this entire other story play out. The narrative in question, if one could have guessed, is the story of his youthful self. Only with severe existentialist dread and depression, the collection of feelings that haunt this man has allowed him to create another wishful persona that will never come true.

FANTASY AND REALITY CONNECT:

Readers may be wondering about the fact that Kaufman's way of storytelling could get choppy and unfocused, but he avoids this roadblock by blending fantasy and reality. Various other pieces of cinema have gone down this road before, but rarely this complex and nuanced. The school in which the older janitor works commonly impacts the figments that come from his imagination. For specific examples, it's best to look at the Oklahoma rehearsal and the fake Robert Zemeckis film playing on the television with the janitor watching both. The movie distorts the audience's perception of self and how Kaufman's fantastical side of Jake may not be so...Fantastical. How so? Viewers are forced to question if the janitor recalls his actual younger self or if he's making it all up from his desirous obsession to be ideal. Hopefulness, attractiveness, perhaps even genuine love are factors in life that this janitor admires and traits that he unfortunately lacks. Aging can be terrifying, even looking at the future from a younger age may do the trick. It's disheartening, discouraging, and overall dismal despite its evident relatability, but also quite beautiful in a sense. Oddly enough, the janitor "imagines" himself as a 32-year-old, unexpected considering what audiences assume he wants. However, with closer scrutiny at this man's invention, we realize that this certain age is right on the turning point of adulthood. Those years are especially crucial in finding purpose and conceivably romance before it gets too late. 

THE WOMAN:

Lucy, the woman that younger Jake is assumedly in love with, is with him for the entirety of his storyline. She could be the romance I was referring to earlier, but why does the janitor imagine or recall her? I believe that her entire character is a product of self-reflection on failure in those few special years before the declining part of life. The janitor either remembers or wishes that he had this experience or kept this experience long enough to have a fulfilling time on Earth. Now, old, disheveled, and abandoned, he will never have the chance to love again. Heartbreaking, right? But only if one understands the movie to the fullest extent. Without precise analysis, viewers will find a lack of emotional connection with any film's characters. Disappointingly, this is likely why the film divided most audiences. Now, back on topic, maybe the janitor even wonders if he could have avoided all the suffering he's feeling inside now. Was Lucy, or could Lucy, have been the resolution to everything occurring in the present? It's interesting to ponder for sure, and yet another question Kaufman brings to the table already full of them. Unfortunately, even if the janitor thinks that this woman would have helped his sorrow, the director takes such a cynically saddening approach to give us the answer. Lucy, who narrates some of the films, constantly repeats the phrase "I'm thinking of ending things," which relates to her wanting to close out the relationship with young Jake. In other words, she doesn't love him enough. Or at least in the janitor's head, alluding to the fact that these thoughts could all be products of failure in confidence. Even in the story he made up, this man cannot escape his introverted mind, and his bemoaning is harrowing to experience. Supporting this wild claim, Lucy's story about their meeting changes, and by the end, it takes on the form of "a creepy guy picked me up at the bar" scenario. She barely even lets younger Jake touch her throughout. Overall, there's hardly any romance in their romance.

THE FINAL DANCE:

The sequence that left many, including me, absolutely distraught on first viewing was the dancing scene. Playing out in such fantastically artistic fashion, this is where Kaufman highlights the janitor's fears to let himself win in even his own fiction. As the movie culminates towards its thrilling conclusion, two conventionally more attractive people replace younger Jake and Lucy in a romantically intact dance. They lovingly and elegantly mascarade through the school's halls, only in existence through the janitor's troubled thoughts. However, another version of the janitor, still old and unattractive, is an absolute menace to the couple. He attacks the young woman and ends up killing the man. So what's this all about? Honestly, we will never fully know, but it's good to speculate. I think it's once again a fleeting moment of terror that this man has—the fear of how he treats others, particularly the woman or Lucy. The fact that through his quiet rage at existence, his inner being becomes a monster and lashes out at his lust for living life to the fullest. A vicious cycle of circular disillusionment is more powerful than anything, claims the film, and it does so ambiguously.

IN CONCLUSION:

I love films like these. Open to so many interpretations, ideas, theories, and whatnot, I'm Thinking of Ending Things studies the human psyche while also picking apart our very existence. It takes an older janitor, discontent with the life he's lived, and makes him take a journey of regretful reminiscence and depression. The film itself is an amalgamation of the need for self-actualization, purpose, and the inadequacy of direction we all face at a specific time in life. Do we have remorse for past choices in life? Would things be different now if we had changed one little aspect during the preceding years of our time here? To live as our ideal form of being, is fantasy the only door to satisfaction? The movie is impossible to pick apart thoroughly, and I have only dissected a small portion of what could be taken away from it; what I can confirm, although, is that this is Kaufman's magnum opus. A masterpiece of the highest order that brings everything shown in his previous works into one.

Color in film: Secondary

By: Keaton Marcus

SECONDARY COLOR INFO:

As with the first analysis on primary colors, it is mandatory to give readers a little bit of a lesson on a tangible scheme for secondary colors:

1. The monochromatic color palette is a single base hue used to create minor shifts in shades, tones, and tints. It establishes a lulling, undivided, and almost harmonious atmosphere, complete and peaceful in its appearance.

2. The analogous color palette comprises one primary color, supporting color, and a mix between the two or an accent color.

3. The triadic color palette can contain three equally spaced colors on the color wheel. One must be more aggressive, and the remaining two should be complementary. An example could include red, blue, and yellow mashed together in one frame.

4. The tetradic color palette includes four colors evenly spaced out in a frame from the color wheel. Bold and uncompromising, this scheme uses one primary color and three accent colors.

5. The discordant color palette is more of a diversion from the other ones, distracting viewers to focus on a particular object in the frame.

6. The associative color palette is the recurrence of a specific color to connect a character, theme, or past event to create an emotional reaction from the audience.

7. The transitional color palette is more or less the antithesis of an associative one, changing throughout a film's story, showing a character's journey through color.

SECONDARY COLOR: GREEN

First, the secondary color to start with, a mesh of yellow and blue, is green. This color represents almost everything straightforward and joyous, quite similar to yellow in that respect. However, it can also be evocative of mental clarity or anything reminiscent of a revelation. A general list of redolent feelings that green may spark in audiences includes healing, soothing, perseverance, tenacity, self-awareness, pride, unchanging nature, environment, health, good luck, renewal, youth, and vigor. Our principal example is Todd Phillips' Joker, which uses green effectively and with meaning, although it isn't necessarily the most underground movie. Even though the film is about a raving, evil mad man, in the various shots that use green, they never feel sinister. No, all tell a story of healing from past trauma—someone going through an experience of sheer mental precision and therapeutic remembrance. The wicked actions Arthur Fleck has committed are lost in a sea of this color, and he bathes in every single inch of it, embracing everything. Secondly, Terrence Malick's works, including A Hidden Life and The Tree of Life, make green their middle names. It's all around in most frames, and generally, it becomes representative of life and renewal. Nature is a common theme both films share, and the main characters wade around in the lush environments and eventually discover rehabilitation within them. Thirdly, Lars von Trier's Melancholia takes the color to a wholly different level. Instead of choosing the positivity route, he makes his entire opening sequence filled with earthly tones and luscious greenery to evoke destruction. Both mental and physical devastation create the feeling of breaking point from depression and emotional anxiety. 

SECONDARY COLOR: PURPLE

A perplexing mix of red and blue light, purple is unbelievable, making characters go through a metaphysical sensation that will change them forever. Despite blue also being somewhat mystical, this color seems even more detached from reality. To give a list, the color mainly represents eroticism, royalty, nobility, spirituality, ceremony, mystery, transformation, wisdom, enlightenment, cruelty, arrogance, mourning, power, sensitivity, and intimacy. Ryan Gosling's debut film, Lost River, was undoubtedly a gorgeous examination of purple color palettes despite its shakily middling reception with critics and audiences. One-shot, in particular, has been catching my attention since viewing, and it's of a temptress, seductive and alluring in a soothing, mellow purply backlight. She's engulfed in fantastical elements, a magical, ethereal figure beyond our capacity to understand. Speaking of Gosling, Damien Chazelle's La La Land is another that transcends the boundaries of reality with the color purple. Commonly used in sequences that almost feel too good to be true or an outright fantasy, cinematographer Linus Sandgren manipulates the audience's emotions with a larger-than-life feel. The romance, sexual tension, and, yes, eroticism felt in these scenes leave audiences in awe and bewilderment while watching. These feelings are perhaps the most primary purpose of the color. Finishing off this excellent, emotional color, Nicolas Winding Refn's The Neon Demon is too gorgeous, not to mention. The intimacy with hints of brutality and cruelty seduce Jesse into the temptations of inhumanity, providing a distinctive glance at savagery, something not often portrayed in the film.

SECONDARY COLOR: ORANGE

The final secondary color that I will be covering is orange, a combination of red and yellow. This color, among many others, can be highly versatile. For one, it can make a frame welcoming, idyllic, and even friendly. But, on the other hand, it can accentuate fire, destruction, a sense of desolation in sheer chaos. Humor, energy, warmth, enthusiasm, vibrancy, expansiveness, fire, destruction, devastation, and even anger are among the spectrum while examining the color. It's similar to red in the negative aspects but also has a more temperate, happier side. In George Miller's Mad Max: Fury Road, orange is commonly used to denote a sharp sense of loneliness in a post-apocalyptic environment. Usually scorching astonishingly stunning wide shots, the emphasis on surroundings versus subjects allows audiences to detach from a character. Orange is the perfect substitute here. To mention Terrence Malick again, Days of Heaven will employ color to evoke emotional solitude and harmony. It's quiet, peaceful, and above all, breathtakingly beautiful in a few of the frames. The elegance and artistically refined work of art that this film only gives birth to more meaning to explore from the color. Thirdly, Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox is simply a burst of vibrance and positive energy. Orange gives the film an electric vigor that injects a sense of entertainment value in audiences, extending their attention span and leaving them wanting more. Every single frame doesn't only look edible, but the ones with an orange feel...nice. It makes one feel pleasant just staring at a few, perhaps even getting someone to forget all of their troubles.

Call Me by Your Name: Representation of Reminiscence

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

Atmosphere. I've referred and delved into this word many times on various posts, and in cinema, it's a fundamental component that goes into building a "good" movie in my eyes. It's likely the most effective tool to really, genuinely immerse audiences into the world of a film. Luca Guadagnino's Call Me by Your Name, an LGBTQ+ romantic drama released in 2017, uses its visuals to produce depth instead of the plot. It's wholly enamored in panache over a story that absorbs viewers into the celestial world of Italy effortlessly, all with using its atmosphere. Seductively and sumptuously, this is a bright, sunlight-laden visual treat, and I will break down the genius of Guadagnino's perfectionism in crafting authentic ambiance.

PREMISE:

Call Me By Your Name details the love story of Elio and Oliver, two young men who spend a summer together on the Italian Riviera and develop a bond that shapes their view of love for the rest of their lives. Elio is a precocious 17-year-old who spends summers with his family in their villa on the Italian Riviera.

ROMANTIC LONGING:

One of the significant aspects Guadagnino touches upon in this masterful film is Elio's infatuation with Oliver at simply first glance. His desire, longing, and overall yearning to have a romantic relationship with him kindle their eventual passion for each other. Of course, there are different types of connections with people. The one forming the unbreakable mental bond between these two characters is a sense of admiration or even unhealthy obsession. Call Me by Your Name has such a brilliant structure because the storytelling encapsulates Elio and Oliver's love for each other in three distinctive parts. The first is hiding desire through behavioral tendencies. For Elio, he constantly spends the beginning third of the film irritated, confused about his sexuality, and attempting to hide his love for Oliver with distractions. In moments that include the dance scene and Elio's father foreshadows their relationship together, the cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom enforces this seductive, dreamy, and almost whimsical environment with blurred surroundings and lens flares. Lush greens and blues further evoke sexuality as Elio and Oliver have various interactions with each other until the first kiss. These shots reinstate Guadagnino's push for a beguiling atmosphere and create the distinct feeling of recollections of the past.

THE POWER OF RETENTION:

Retention or the power to remember significant events in the past was another feature of this film that immediately stuck out to me. As they swim in the water together, bike around, and linger in the field, it all feels like Deja Vu. A vague sense of nostalgia adds to the dreamy, melancholic, and reminiscent feel of this movie. Every single frame looks like a painting and adds substance, which I adore in a film. Green, yellow, and blue are the colors of these retrospections, and it's brilliant to witness such masterful direction of palettes and visuals. However, this doesn't only happen due to the cinematography, but also the soundtrack. Sufjan Stevens' score and the combination of pre-existing music add to the evocative enticement of the Italian backdrop. Speaking of "pre-existing" music, Andre Laplante's Une Barque Sur L'ocean is what moviegoers commonly refer to as a "leitmotif." It's a melodic, soothing piano-driven piece that plays whenever Elio and Oliver ride their bikes together. I would call it this film's recurring theme of romance, and call me basic, but it's beautiful. Contributing to my point about how Laplante's music breathes life into this colorful movie, it even plays during their first kiss together, so that should tell readers enough. Surreal, alluring, and otherworldly, it comes to the question of why Guadagnino puts in so much effort to convey these feelings. It's because this entire movie is technically the past, and the ending is Elio remembering everything.

THE PAST:

Leading me neatly to the next part of this analysis is that our view of the film seems like the present, but it's several years ago in the movie's world. However, because of the skilled direction, it almost eases viewers into realizing that. As a result, the entire film more or less plays like a vivid, messy, and wonderfully joyous dream that ends in a saddening but finalizing manner. Being honest with myself, this is an example of impeccable work from the director and something I will always aspire to match if I ever become a filmmaker. We are looking back at events and the rarely satiated desires of Elio to have a long-lasting connection with Oliver. I can also appreciate this film's transcendentalism of the different types of romantic couples. It doesn't solely apply to gay couples. One can see this happening with a man with a woman, a woman with a woman, and in this case, a man with a man. The sexuality of romance is irrelevant here, and it's another reason why the film is so successful. That leads us to the heartbreaking conclusion of Call Me by Your Name, which evokes such a universal and personal feeling of losing someone or something you admire or love. Romantic or not, gay or not, the conclusion is a celebration of general adoration. Elio and Oliver say goodbye to each other, and as Elio wears a similar shirt to what Oliver wore at the beginning, audiences feel the lasting impact that he has had on the boy's life. Before Mukdeeprom cuts away from the train station (the setting of their last encounter), the camera pans to reveal a gorgeous final clash of green, light blue, and yellow. Absolute mastery of craft is achieved with cinematography here, and my jaw physically dropped at the callback to their love earlier in the film.

THE FINAL SEQUENCE:

Although the train station sequence may feel like a fitting end, Guadagnino knows it doesn't quite hit the landing. The actual final sequence cuts in the future to Hanukkah as Elio's parents are choosing the next student to spend six weeks at their beautiful summer home. In direct contrast to the playfully bright palette that shined through the film before, the last 10 minutes or so carry a darker, wintery color scheme to them. It's still a little bit dream-like in a sense, but it feels far more depressing as Elio desperately tries to distract himself from his loss of Oliver. If the film's previous scene wasn't already disheartening enough, Elio receives an unexpected phone call from Oliver, who tells him that he's getting married. To a woman. Elio hides his apparent sadness with an artificially masked facade and congratulates him hastily. However, the real important part of this call is when Oliver says, "I remember everything." The dialogue here opens the door entirely to the fact that their entire love affair has been reduced to memory, but a beautiful and wholesome one at that. Then, easily one of my favorite cinematic moments of all time was the final, unbroken shot of Elio on the verge of tears sitting down by a fireplace. The embers reflecting on his watery eyes as he contemplates his short-lived romance is a tender moment of reminiscence that wraps up everything perfectly. Overall, CMBYN is the poignant yet uplifting feeling when we remember something important in our lives. A visual representation of commemoration that we moviegoers should cherish and apply to our own lives.

Color in Film: A Guide

By: Keaton Marcus

INTRO:

To begin this two-part series, I am starting with what we call "primary colors." What are primary colors? How do they shift the mood of a movie? What does this group include? These are the questions that I will answer in this visual essay, how each singular color can affect the audience's emotions and change the entire feeling of a scene just by switching from red to green. When setting the stage with color in a particular frame, it is essential not to forget the three main aspects of this filmmaking concept. The Hue, saturation, and brightness of an image can change the mood of a shot immensely. Depending on the color and the intensity of one, audiences will have various reactions. It could be the difference between a bright red versus a calming red, and the same goes for the other two primary colors. Neon and mellow lighting are far from the same thing, even if they are of the same color.

COLOR #1: RED

Red, quite an alarming color, strikes the audience as passionate and dangerous, but it depends on whether it's in a negative or alluring fashion. There is nuance to every color. Even though red is stereotypically related to evil and violence, let us get into examples that may change readers' perceptions of such a widely misunderstood color. Primarily, this color represents anger, passion, rage, desire, excitement, energy, speed, strength, power, heat, love, aggression, danger, fire, blood, war, and violence in general. Looking back at the list of elicited feelings that audiences will commonly get while staring at a palette drenched with red, it isn't all in a depraved manner. Let's take a look at Spike Jonze's Her. In this movie, Theodore, Joaquin Phoenix's character, commonly wears mostly red clothing to stand out from the bleak, muted environment around him. It signifies his desire for love or any genuine connection with another person despite the mellow and dull surroundings that cloud his quest for purpose. Secondly, we have Stanley Kubrick. His films consistently use this color, but many would argue it's most iconically used in The Shining when a massive wave of blood pours out of an opening elevator. Danny, who has foreshadowing visions of the Overlook, has a dream about this imagery, and clearly, Kubrick wants to warn audiences about incoming danger, violence, and death. To cap this paragraph off with one more example, we can take Sam Mendes' American Beauty or Wong Kar-wai's In the Mood for Love, two very different films about very different approaches to lust for love. However, in many shots, both evoke the aching yearning for affection under intensely opposite circumstances.

COLOR #2: BLUE

Almost playing in direct contrast to red, blue is cerebral, calm, soothing, a color of rationality and wistfulness. Purple may be downright perfect for depicting fantasy, but if blue is used by the filmmaker properly, it can be otherworldly to the point of magical. This color can mainly represent peace, calm, isolation, passivity, celebreality, melancholy, or an overarching feeling of coldness. Depending on whether the director wants to use this color positively or negatively, I would umbrella every use under the evocation of relaxation. It immerses audiences and traps the character in their world of ethereality, an often gorgeously enchanting experience that perplexes viewers, but not necessarily in a wrong way. Our first example would have to be Nicolas Winding Refn's Only God Forgives. For starters, say what you want about his ability to create coherent stories, but Refn is one of the few masters of color. He creates art through visual storytelling, and in the shot of Ryan Gosling's Julian, as he transcends the boundaries of reality, audiences almost become him. We feel his confusion, but it isn't fearful; it is bound with curiosity or the need to discover. Secondly, Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life, a poetic, thematic, and visually artistic achievement, uses blue to such a level of perfection that it's difficult not to admire. Particularly in the breathtaking dolly zoom of Jessica Chastain's character walking in this peaceful, uncommonly bright environment that more or less comes as a representation of grace, Malick and Emmanuel Lubezki nail both purpose and metaphor to create the perfect frame. Thirdly, because how could I not mention this masterwork, Barry Jenkins' Moonlight is an example to admire for sure. In the final shot primarily, when Chiron glances back directly at the camera, he's found tranquillity within his very being. No more chaos, inner toil, or conflict, just serenity. Order. Calm.

COLOR #3: YELLOW:

Very contrarian to the other two colors I have analyzed previously, yellow is bereft of any mystery, uncertainty, or threat of any kind. It's pure, complete clarity in one's happiness, a grand sense of contentment with nothing in particular. I can best describe it as an overwhelming feeling of joy. In terms of a list of actual evocations this can emit, directors commonly use yellow for wisdom, knowledge, relaxation, joy, happiness, optimism, idealism, imagination, hope, sunshine, summer, and many more wholly positive feelings that will never fail to cheer up one's audience. In terms of examples, Wes Anderson's short film Hotel Chevalier conveys a sense of perfection and happiness despite Natalie Portman's struggle to discover it. In the symmetrical shot of her sitting on the bed, everything is yellow. Her clothing, wallpaper, the lamps beside her, part of her actual bed are all made to elicit this feeling, and it makes for a gorgeous shot. In Quentin Tarantino's Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, we see Brad Pitt's character relaxing on a golf cart, and almost everything surrounding him, and what he's wearing is bright yellow. It automatically gives audiences sheer euphoria, a sharp shock of optimism, idealism, and just cool overall. Pitt oozes relaxation, and this scene accentuates that. To wrap everything up with a completely contrasting perspective on yellow, we have Denis Villeneuve's Enemy. This film, filled with gratuitous sex, betrayal, and chaos, is tinted entirely with a murky, dirty yellow that makes audiences feel disgusted with what they are witnessing. This darker tone of a habitually joyous color provides an overwhelming sense of dread, depravity, and degradation. As it plunges audiences into a cruel world where everything is made for viewers to despise and look down upon, Villeneuve provides a unique and memorable take on the color.

The Master: A Loop of Detachment

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, one of the two "black sheeps" of the consistently well-received director. Although it has garnered a cult following years after its release, it is a film that confounded viewers, leaving them confused, bored, and even a bit disappointed. But, unfortunately, this is an impeccable piece of work from a giant at his craft. It's an allegorical study on a man's PTSD and longing for a "master." A leader. Almost working as a fictional parallel to Scientology, we follow Freddie, a World War II navy veteran attempting to adjust to a post-war society before he meets the charming Lancaster Dodd, who welcomes him to his cult, known as "The Cause." This analysis aims to somewhat plunge into the psyche of this character and explain him to readers.

PART ONE: A WELCOMING CAUSE

Expected from a movie starring Joaquin Phoenix, this guy's another loner, bereft of confidence and purpose, just a soul hurtling to the end of life on Earth. Before meeting Dodd, Freddie more or less wanders through existence, failing to make a genuine connection or have any settlement in one place for a solid amount of time. Constantly traveling, he has zero faith in humanity and only cares for himself. Freddie's a man without a direction, without a cause. That is until he meets Dodd and his version of internal peace, purpose, and overall engagement with life. On the surface, like every real-world cult, The Cause seems almost magical. The group has a bizarre type of hypnosis therapy, shall we call it, and the treatment can cure just about anything. Treating anything from allergies to leukemia to one's stability in mental health, Dodd's promises slowly but surely condition Freddie into finally joining. How is this? Dodd claims that discovering trauma lived in past lives and "correcting" them, returning humanity and faith in existence to anyone lost, sounds like just what Freddie desperately needs. The marriage between The Cause's tenacity to help and Freddie's desires constructs an unbreakable connection of one-sided adoration. Like anyone would do in this situation, our main character is inherently skeptical of the bells and whistles Dodd can ring and blown on. However, as mentioned, a bond forms that will be more challenging to break than it was initially to make.

PART TWO: FREDDIE'S SOFT SIDE

So, how does Dodd seduce Freddie exactly? It all principally starts when he finally gets to "process" him, where he points out a particular "weakness" or "soft side" that Freddie is harboring. Then, to initially deconstruct Freddie's very being, Dodd, who I will now refer to as the Master, rapidly fires random questions at him with barely any relevance. A simmering an unexpected technique that sends Freddie off the rails slowly but surely. Processing rules include that the Master must repeat specific questions and ask Freddie to answer them without blinking, or the subject must start at the beginning. As a distraction from his apparent uneasiness, Freddie resorts to his usual vulgar humor and temper, using his personality as an attempt to prevent insanity. Unfortunately, the madness begins to overtake his childish persona, and as the Master starts to uncover his past trauma, a pang of guilt hits him while reminiscing on accidentally killing someone earlier in the film. He remembers his dead father and psychotic mother before being accosted about Doris, a girl he reveals to have loved. As the Master interrogates him why Freddie isn't with her right now, Freddie's fragile shell crumbles completely as his being becomes vulnerable. This hellish but ultimately therapeutic encounter between Freddie and the Master gives this man a catharsis he had never experienced before. Through honesty and vulnerability, the Master has cracked into Freddie's soft side without fulfilling his desire for women and drinking.

PART THREE: GOD'S LONELY MAN

As explained earlier in this essay, a part of the reason why the Master broke down the walls of Freddie's mind with such ease is the fact that he's lonely. He blindly searches for an artificial connection between alcohol and sex, but the Master provided a genuine link, and Freddie takes it with slight suspicion. In the iconic desert scene near the end of the film, Freddie is challenged by the Master, given a motorcycle, the chance to find freedom. Elated and surprised, he takes it and rides off into the distance to Doris, the woman he mentioned in the processing scene. It's not just with his sweetness or the welcoming surface of The Cause that leads to the Master's easy manipulation, but also Freddie's unfortunate detachment from humanity. To his disappointment, Doris is already married and has children, and his seemingly imagined future with her has vanished out of thin air. Realizing that his obsession over Doris was once again a product of an obsessively daunting lack of authenticity in past relationships, he turns to his one and only definite friend, the Master. Although simplistically, the story sounds insane and with an overarching sense of taking advantage of the depressed, it also can be interpreted by viewers as an emotional, even heartwarming tale. As Freddie pays the Master one last visit, something ticks in him. The Master was the only man who defended him, drank with him, gave him women, provided him with naturally cultivated honesty, a trait that he didn't possess before. They were friends. Believe it or not, despite their arguments and occasionally unhealthy relationship, this was a true bromance. However, like all sailors, Freddie's internal and indulgent solitude prevents him from staying in one place.

PART FOUR: MOVIE BECOMES MIND

What ruined the film for many and even made me skeptical was the final shot. It features Freddie lying next to the sand woman from the beginning of the film. What could this possibly represent? Most people, including me, believe that this is Anderson's way of telling audiences that Freddie never really changed. So what was the justification for the film happening? Doesn't this mean that the ending destroyed Freddie's entire arc? Maybe it does, but it also carries a point of great significance. That there was no point. This man ends where he started, and that is because the movie isn't a study of his mind; it is his mind. It encapsulates his entire personality and shows that even with therapeutic changes in character, this man will forever be who he first was at the start of the film. This "theory" of sorts could all sound meaningless, pretentious drivel to cover up a miscalculated conclusion mired by indulgence, but I will stand by it nonetheless. Events in a film do not always meet our perceptions of significant character transformations. Do not take those words for granted.

CONCLUSION

As only some readers may have noticed, I adore this movie, and writing the analysis made me appreciate it even more. With another re-watch (I've seen it three times now), I can easily see it climb to my top ten favorites of all time. Paul Thomas Anderson has indeed shown audiences an inspiring achievement in cinematic history. In my interpretation, this movie is one of the only films that has successfully entered and become a human being's psychology. Proof that art can transcend boundaries and become more significant than its expectations is evident here, and if anyone has not seen this movie yet, I highly recommend it. The ending can be--challenging to comprehend, but please give it an open-minded shot!

Subjectivity and Obejctivity

By: Keaton Marcus

While I have covered this topic briefly in numerous past posts, it's come to my attention that it came off as a bit rushed, incomplete, and not doing this "controversial" topic enough justice. So here, as readers may have guessed, I will be writing an essay on subjectivity and objectivity while viewing a film, giving definitions for the two before stating which one I prefer. What constitutes these words? Is there such thing as complete subjectivity or objectivity? As always, while writing these topic essays, feel free to disagree or call out any poor writing, but at least respect and hear my take out.

OBJECTIVITY:

Before explaining the term, it's easy to say that this entire topic is so incredibly convoluted, mired in multiple perceptions as usual, that it's challenging to pinpoint a singular definition. Objectivity, for one, can relate to an arrogant moviegoer calling their highly debatable opinion fact, claiming that anyone who disagrees with them is wrong. In other words, their point of view of something is objective. Obviously, from looking at the word from this point of view, one will definitely come across the conclusion that this concept is ethically incorrect when discussing movies. Claiming your opinion is absolute, one hundred percent right while invalidating the other is harmful and just irritating. The other way to look at objectivity is slightly more agreeable, and it relates to ratings. What am I referring to? I happen to be referencing aggregated review sites such as Rotten Tomatoes, IMDb, Letterboxd, Metacritic and more that compile reviews online into a two digit number (most of the time). We are all influenced by this type of objective placeholder even if it’s a pain to admit it. It can be extremely challenging to rate something a five out of five when the average, objective rating is 2.5/5. Not to say the concept of weighted averages is morally superior to the elitist cinephile one, but it’s definitely a fact. 100% objectivity cannot exist for sure, but after factoring in ratings from a massive group of critics or audiences, a statement like “Taxi Driver is considered objectively a masterpiece” isn’t so far fetched. When one says “I think Kill Bill is the greatest achievement of all time and anyone who thinks otherwise is incorrect”, then holes begin to show in this argument. Yep, no one said breaking this down was going to be a walk in the park.

SUBJECTIVITY:

Now, subjectivity, also not necessarily the easiest topic to simplify into one paragraph. To begin, subjectivity refers most to highly personal (and perhaps unpopular) opinion. In a person’s eyes, Michael Bay may be a better director than Akira Kurosawa. Objectively, in terms of ratings and general mainstream reactions, this is completely false, but not to our friendly neighborhood cinephile Jeffrey. Bay could be a genius to this man, and that’s the definition of a subjective perspective on cinema. It can also be something less insane to most people, like the score of Tenet is Nolan’s best. Again, highly subjective despite not being incredibly unpopular in agreement. Readers may be thinking that this subject is far easier to deconstruct, and maybe even that 100% subjectivity does exist, but that’s where things get complicated. Our human nature binds us. The constrictions of peer pressure and almost mob mentality prevent us from being completely subjective either. In one way or another, all of us are affected by a Letterboxd score, even if in a subtle matter. For example, I love Zack Snyder’s Man of Steel, and with the 2.9 on LB, it puts me down for sure. I stick with my opinion of course, but it can be difficult without question. Additionally, I believe that The Rise of Skywalker is a solid conclusion, but with the mixed-to-negative reviews, it can be hard to carry that around with pride. Hopefully these rambling incoherencies of an argument came together well enough.

WHICH I PREFER:

This bit of the essay is likely the easiest job yet. The ultimate conclusion in terms of what is better is obviously subjectivity. Having personal feelings no matter what other people or ratings say and voicing them is the healthiest way to grow one’s passion for cinema. Developing a superiority complex and listening to the mainstream consensus shouldn’t even be allowed to an extent in my opinion, as it can be damaging for both you and others that simply want to share their love for film. Look, I’m not the person to be telling people what’s right or not, but at least try and see from this perspective because it could be helpful for the future. Whenever I come across someone who enjoys putting people down for an opinion, I pity them. It’s disappointing to see so many that do not have the empathetic capacity to respect others, but it is also something we must live with in the film community.

CONCLUSION:

Wrapping this up, I would like to keep it in readers’ heads that this entire write-up is only my view on the matter and is in almost no way fact. This is an infinitely debatable topic that will never likely get perfectly solved and wrapped up in a tight little bow. Hopefully this was at the very least insightful and an interesting read. After reading, if you enjoyed this at all, please ponder this for just 30 seconds. What side are you on? Do you take into account other people’s feelings while voicing your own opinion? Leave a comment about what your thoughts were, and what you prefer out of the two terms.

Camera Movements: A Guide

By: Keaton Marcus

*Two important movements that I couldn’t fit in:

1. the arc shot - when the camera revolves around characters to represent a sense of heroism, like in The Avengers.

2. the boom shot - an immediate push down or up with the camera on a device that moves it. Perhaps to show an important object/crucial part of scene.

PREFACE:

Camera movements are often taken for granted. A casual moviegoer who doesn’t necessarily examine each movie frame with close attention generally will assume all the awesome visual tricks are solely for gimmicks. Some are, but if used in the right places, filmmakers can create dynamic, compelling work that appeals to viewers through imagery instead of dialogue. This took hours of research, but I believe I have finally studied each important camera movement sufficiently to talk about them here. In this post, I will be breaking each one down, studying the effect they have on the viewer, and giving examples from cinema.

sTATIC SHOT:

First, I would like to start with the simplest movement where nothing really moves at all, dubbed the “static shot.” Although it seems like they don’t take much effort when a camera is literally solely pointing at figures or objects, the cinematographer must lock the camera onto a tripod in a fixed, stable position that will not move. There is no actual camera movement, but it can be extremely effective for filmmaking if you want to depict a simple, straightforward moment. To create tension between characters or make audiences focus on one particular aspect of the shot, this is a nice choice, suitable for scenes with dialogue, perfectionist compositions, or spotlights on an actor’s performance to really accentuate their talents. One example of this shot type is the iconic moment in Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel when Agatha (Saoirse Ronan) and Zero (Toni Revolori) sit face-to-face surrounded by bright, pink boxes. This is definitely an example of meticulous staging that seems planned and perfectionistic, and that’s intentional. Additionally, DP Hoyte van Hoytema uses the static shot in Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk when many bombs are dropping on the beach up towards a soldier. It depicts sheer helplessness and scale between the character and the danger they are in. Possibly the most striking and visually devastating use of this movement is in Steve McQueen’s 12 Years a Slave, in which the camera holds on Solomon (Chiwetel Ejiofor) being lynched for possibly a minute, if not more, as he struggles for life. One of McQueen’s signature techniques (he held the camera in Hunger for 17 minutes straight on one frame), the effective use of the static shot, immerses audiences and never lets them out of the trance.

THE TILT:

This movement often gets confused with the pan because it’s essentially the same movement just on a vertical axis, but the “tilt” is still worth delving into. When the camera is directed up or down instead of left or right, the actual movement is generally used to depict scale in verticality in cinema. It either gives the character or the surroundings a sense of dominance and strength over their counterparts. The movement, almost like a pan, can show a character for the first time, reveal information, a setting, or anything key to the existence of a film. Christopher Nolan is a filmmaker who uses the move constantly to show scale or how massive the environment is compared to the characters. Examples include the waves scene in Interstellar or when the buildings flip in Inception. It gives vulnerability to the humans and an awe-inducing feeling out of audiences, making it a solid choice for exciting films. With only a simple tilt-up, Nolan perfectly encapsulates this stunning moment with complete ease. Additionally, this movement is always used in Star Wars films to kick off the opening scene, beginning with A New Hope when the camera tilts down from a void of space to a star destroyer chasing a small rebel cruiser. This is used to convey further information about what’s going on in the location in a dynamic, creative way that appeals to the audience.

THE PAN/WHIP PAN:

Next up in line, we have the types of “pans,” and we will start this section off with the most basic movement. Principally, it means to rotate the camera horizontally or from left to right, but it has to remain in a fixed location, usually locked onto a tripod. When used wisely, this movement can follow a character in a certain direction or perhaps reveal information about a location or object. As we discussed before, Wes Anderson uses this technique often to create his version of comedic effect, making an otherwise serious situation feel silly and quirky. There are several subtypes of a regular pan, including a slow pan which gives birth to tension, and swift pans that produce a sense of adrenaline. The latter has made quite the name for itself, frequently dubbed a “whip pan” and constantly used by director Damien Chazelle in his feature films Whiplash and La La Land. Chazelle uses these extremely fast whips to almost juxtapose imagery in a visually striking manner. The most iconic example of this is in a jazz club in La La Land where he cuts back and forth from Ryan Gosling’s Sebastian playing the piano to Emma Stone’s Mia dancing. There’s energy, life, and a sense of stimulation, a flawless choice of shot for the type of scene. In Whiplash, it’s less used to create chemistry but more to depict seething tension between J.K. Simmons’ Terrence and Miles Teller’s Andrew, chronicling the sheer hate they have for each other. One more prime example of this movement would be in Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill Vol. 1, when Uma Thurman’s The Bride throws a knife at Vernita Green. It fuels Tarantino’s signature style of meshing drama and humor, adding a slightly humorous touch to violent action.

ZOOM:

Despite being somewhat similar to the pull-in, the “zoom”, which we will be covering now. It’s a more unnatural version of the pull-in, being a movement where you don’t actually have to move the camera at all as it’s attached to the tripod. Sure, you aren’t actually moving the literal equipment, it simply changes the focal length of the lens to zoom in or out. One of the many similarities to a pull-out, the movement can give context, introduce characters, and add visual depth to a scene. One of the most famous uses of this technique is in the opening sequence of The Graduate where cinematographer Robert Surtees zooms out on Dustin Hoffman’s Benjamin sitting on a plane. It gives life to loneliness and abandonment, but with more ease and convenience than a pull-out. Like in The Shining when Wendy eyes the “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” writing, the camera zooms abruptly to give audiences all the details. Another example would be in Spielberg’s Jaws when Martin Brody’s shocked eyes see a kid being eaten by the shark. Cinematographer Bill Butler uses a dolly zoom to create a mind-bending, unnatural effect, making it a shot in which style creates substance. Nothing is meaningless. This creates something that we call the “vertigo effect”. It can also be found in films such as Hitchcock’s Vertigo, Spielberg’s ET, James Gunn’s Guardians of the Galaxy, Barry Jenkins’ Moonlight, Scorsese’s Raging Bull, and Rian Johnson’s Star Wars: The Last Jedi. Horror films in general use this movement to produce a feeling of uneasiness, with examples including The Sixth Sense, The Conjuring, and Kubrick’s filmography. In an iconic shot in The Shining, there is a slow zoom inwards to accentuate the insanity going on in Jack’s mind when he stares out the window of the hotel. It creates an uncomfortable environment for audiences. Another type of zoom that is worth briefly covering is dubbed the “crash zoom”. This movement is usually used to combine dramatic and comic effects, commonly showing up in Edgar Wright and Quentin Tarantino’s filmography. Prominent examples include Django Unchained, Hot Fuzz, and Shaun of the Dead, all films that have a blend of drama and comedy, putting the crash zoom to flawless use.

THE PULL-IN/PULL-OUT:

Next, we have the movements used to gradually move to or from a character or object, dubbed the pull-in or the pull-out. Beginning with the pull-in, which takes us inward, filmmakers generally use this technique to convey importance, more or less similar to the static shot in the metaphorical sense. It tells audiences that the subject or subjects in the frame must be looked at, and it never allows us to glance away from the aspects in the limelight. For example, in Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather, cinematographer Gordon Willis slowly pulls us inward to meet Al Pacino’s Michael as he discusses a possible assassination at a restaurant. As he converses, the visual way of depicting cruciality in cinema immerses us into the moment. In a far more subtle sense, this movement is also used in Denis Villeneuve’s Sicario during the opening sequence when Daniel Kaluuya’s Reggie realizes that there are dead bodies behind a wall in the housing of a drug cartel. As Roger Deakins’ camera begins to examine the hole in the wall and pushes inwards, it’s basically telling us that there’s more than meets the eye, something devilish beneath the surface. I’m going to umbrella the pull-out in this section because it’s literally the exact same thing as a pull-in but on an outward track. Unlike the subject-focused pull-in, this movement loses emphasis on the character and gives birth to the surroundings, making for a striking impact. Although this seems like a failure to the characters, it can provide perfect running time for location and letting the camera breathe. Context, characters, and setting can be introduced with one simple movement. Examples include the final shot of Steven Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can, an investigation scene in Tom McCarthy’s Spotlight, Wendy walking away from Jack writing in Kubrick’s The Shining, the opening credits of Ari Aster’s Midsommar, and in Nolan’s Interstellar when Cooper is lost in the realm of time, space, and memories. Most of all, this movement conveys loneliness. Abandonment. The loss of feeling and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Take one of the most devastating moments I have seen…The opening sequence of Todd Phillips’ Joker. When the camera gradually moves outwards from Arthur’s vulnerable, beaten state lying on the ground, we can’t help but feel empathy for this person as he lies in the fetal position. It’s tragic, horrifying, and this movement only aids its existence. Abandonment of the subject.

CAMERA ROLL:

Next, we have the “camera roll”, which turns the camera on its long axis despite keeping the exact same direction of the lens. It creates a dizzying, disturbing effect that feels erratic and odd to our expectations of normalcy. In terms of how it can be effective, this movement is often used in moments of character panic, or to match emotions and movements of the subject. For introducing anything evil, whether it’s a monster in The Conjuring, foreshadowing in Hereditary, or a villain takeover in Black Panther, I highly recommend using this type of shot. If we take Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, a primary example would be when Batman is hanging Joker off of a building and the camera rolls to make the villain seem in control. It’s a terrific moment of matching switches of dynamic power. Although I have yet to delve into his filmography, provocatively controversial French filmmaker Gaspar Noe commonly uses camera rolls from what I have noticed, usually to enhance a brutally stylistic atmosphere.

TRACKING/TRUCKING:

That leads us nicely along to the next major movement, the “tracking shot”. The movement is when the camera follows a character from behind in one long, continuous shot. The camera must physically move with the subject to be considered tracking, which is what differs from the pull-in and pull-out. Although almost all of Sam Mendes’ 1917 is in one take, some of the most immersive shots come with soldiers walking through the trenches as the camera follows them. However, Mendes and Deakins weren’t the two who really revolutionized this technique for war films. Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory is a flawless example of a camera following soldiers through the trenches getting ready for battle. It’s thrilling and impossible to look away from. Effective cinematography at its finest from Georg Krause. In the final sequence of Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, cinematographer Michael Chapman makes use of an overhead tracking shot to chronicle Travis Bickle’s murders in order to save Iris. Despite my minor flaws with the movie, this entire scene is absolute perfection. Meaningful, impactful, and delightfully nuanced, Scorsese was clearly at his visual A-game here. This movement definitely creates immersion and elongates audiences’ attention span. It can also be used to create sheer tension, like in The Shining where cinematographer Martin Kenzie follows Danny on his little bike throughout the hallways of the Overlook. Similarly to the tracking shot, the “trucking shot” follows a character but in a different perspective, this time from a side angle instead of behind. In Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom, he uses this technique frequently, most importantly when he trucks the camera alongside scoutmaster Ward as he inspects the camping grounds. This provides a far more unique way of storytelling and adds to the experience. Other examples to check out would be Children of Men, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood and Goodfellas.

How to Make a Good Post: Tips from Yours Truly

By: Keaton Marcus

PREFACE:

There are so many things to consider in terms of planning to make a post. Whether you're a film account just starting out or relatively experienced, it can be hard to decipher how to create appealing content. Whether it's the balance of style and substance, the quality over quantity paradox, the decision to put text over images and how to do so, find high-quality pictures in the first place, and the right font for the cover slide. For even myself, it's a bit tricky to find the perfect equilibrium between all the aspects that work in tandem to create what we call a good post. Agree or disagree with me. Call me unfit to write such an essay. I'm just here to voice my sole perspective on the matter.

DIFFERENT TYPES TO MAKE:

I wanted to start by listing the types of posts available that one can make, and there are several for sure. In terms of my process, I always think it depends on the movie. If it's known for its colors, cinematography, or spectacle in general, it may be the right idea to appreciate various stills from the film. Filmstigram dubs this a "cinematography post", and for some reason, it carries a negative connotation with it even though it takes work a lot of the time. Posting a singular frame may not be the most challenging thing, but color-coding collages of beautiful stills can be challenging to complete. If the film is known for its deep themes and serious subject matter, it may be time to analyze if you are up to the job. Keep in mind that these aren't exactly a walk in the park to make if you want a detailed post, and it may require several re-watches for a film. If that doesn't sound like the correct choice for you, then a simple review would suffice. What if you don't want to cover a singular movie? Maybe an entire topic on cinema? As an analysis somehow, but a little more informal depending on the subject, a topic essay could be the choice. Once again, it takes a lot of determination and practice to perfect, which I strive to achieve, so I do not feel forced.

STYLE AND SUBSTANCE:

I will admit, this is more or less similar to when I was writing about making cinematography posts, but I promise to add a little more to the topic here. When designing or writing a post, it can be a lot of pressure to decide whether you want to make it more stylish and visually appealing or the most detailed, extended, and well-structured analysis this app has ever seen. Which is better is one question, but the one that goes through all our minds every time we think of an idea, unfortunately, is which type will get more recognition? It seems impossible, but you have to get that out of your head immediately. Popularity is temporary fulfillment, and posting stills of iconic films will get you more clout than analyzing a French New Wave movie, but isn't that the epitome of style over substance? Once again, I'm not saying that cinematography posts cannot be hard to make because it can take hours, especially if it's videos instead of images. Still, it's disappointing that posting a frame can get you more likes than an analysis that someone put their blood and sweat into making. I would conclude to do whatever you think is suitable for the topic or film covered in the post, but a good balance can never hurt.

WHAT APP TO USE?

Another tricky aspect to pole vault over in the journey of posting is finding which app to use. If you're an editor looking for some advice, then apologies, I don't edit frequently enough to give you a concrete recommendation, but iMovie or Premiere Pro isn't bad. Otherwise, for a post, my main rec would have to be Canva. The Pro version of the app has improvements for sure, but the basic one isn't too far off. For free, there are hundreds of different fonts to try out, plenty of templates if you don't know where to start (although it's best to find your own), filters for images without Instagram's help, effects for text (to make it pop out more), measurings for the size and width of the design, and more like those. It's easy to use, convenient to download and save to your camera roll, and faces only minimal technical difficulties that I only rarely have. I know this sounds like some glorified advertisement, but try it out because some other accounts struggling with finding a consistent app to use switched to Canva and enjoyed it.

TEXT ON IMAGERY?

Ugh. This one can be a real pain in the ass to complete successfully, so I hope this helps. Text on imagery is a hell of a thing to pull off if you're doing an extended essay or analysis. It can be incredibly hard or impossible to read if the color of the text doesn't contrast nicely with the background image. It can be easy to give up and write your paragraphs in the post's caption, which is an entirely valid and convenient choice, but people may or may not notice it! I always use white text, so finding darker images with palettes of blue, black, grey, etc., is usually the priority for essays. It took me a while, and I'm still working on perfecting writing on stark, stunning images, but my posts are usually readable these days. You do not want to throw white text on a bright still with a palette of yellow, white, or neon (depends on the back). However, this could vary depending on your preference for the color of the text. Black will work on white and yellow; white will not. If all goes wrong and you can't hit the mark consistently enough with contrast, then throw it in the caption and collage the gorgeous stills without worrying about readability.

BEST QUALITY IMAGES:

But wait, how do you find 4k or 1080p imagery from films to place on your slides? Invariably I wouldn't say I like stills from movies below that quality range and strive to make my posts as stunning as possible even though it comes with ignoring a few costs. Alright, time to stop babbling and get to the point. Google images is always a solid place to start. Still, to find the best stills, I usually look up something like "Blade Runner 2049 cinematography" or "One Perfect Shot: Dunkirk" to see the coolest ones. However, Google gives you a more or less limited arrangement of screengrabs from the movie, and when I cannot find the one I'm looking for, I go to the IMDb photo gallery for the respective film. It's not infinite, but it has a more unique, rare selection of the best-looking cinema. I know, here we go again with me sounding like an annoying ad, but I can't lie, IMDb is where it's at, ok?. If those two choices do not fit your needs, then there's always Pinterest, Instagram, or Twitter which usually has images under the hashtags of the movie.

THE COVER:

Now how to make your post pop from the rest? How to grab viewers looking at their feed to check out that post? Unless it's a black and white film, make your cover slide colorful, poppy, and slick in terms of text choice and imagery. In this particular slide, you should not be worried about substance or detail, so go full style and give it that bubble gum feeling that yanks the viewer over to your post. The same rules apply to text contrast, but it can be a little easier considering it's essential to use a more prominent and bolder style of text here, which gives the ideal color palette a bit more variation. There are still restrictions, however. Filmstigram commonly oversaturates one particular still, and it pops up in practically every account's feed. For example, the radiation shot of K walking in 2049 is beautiful but overused as hell, so find something different, something one hasn't quite seen in focus before. Just anything that catches attention without being repetitive. Oh, and also, as a tip, don't use the same frame twice for your covers!!

CONCLUSION:

This post may or may not have been as helpful as I thought it would be. To recap, I listed tips for what type of post to make, the lean-to style or substance, the best app to use, how to design text on imagery, find high-quality images, and make the cover stand out from the crowd. Don't force yourself to make the most significant post of all time on your first try. Maybe attempt to make a pretty, if shallow post at first before diversifying your content.