The Four Kinds of People

When it comes to movies there are, by my best estimation, four kinds of people in the world. The first kind considers the motion picture industry to be nothing more than a speck on the map of humanity. These people rarely, if ever, watch movies in any format (theatrically, Blu-ray, DVD, etc.). They feel that they have better, more productive things to do than sit in front of a screen for a couple hours. Ironically, these very same people will generally set aside time to view programs on network television that generally waste the very power and potential this visual medium was created for (HBO's original programming is an often glorious exception). These people probably and unfortunately, in my opinion, represent the majority.

The second kind are those who go to the theater on occasion, know the names of a few actors here and there, and may even be caught discussing a movie with friends. However, while these people may enjoy watching movies now and again, they by no means pretend, or care to pretend, that they are movie buffs. In my eyes, as a nearly fanatical cinephile, this group is alright. Sure, more often than not they may appear to have poor taste, but they don’t pretend to be anything they aren’t. If they’re going to criticize a film, other than the most basic “good movie” or “bad movie” comment, it will probably be related to the fact that there was too much butter on their popcorn or there wasn’t enough ice in their 40 oz. Coca-Cola. In other words, these folks just don’t take movies all that seriously. They can enjoy them, they can discuss them in simple terms, but in the end, movies don’t really mean anything to them, and they can admit it.

The third group is the worst of the bunch, and I used to be one of them so I’m speaking from personal experience. This breed fancies themselves to be huge movie buffs. They buy Blu-rays or DVDs often, they discuss movies regularly, and they might even have an extremely nice media room devoted to the experience. The problem is this: they are phonies. How does one spot a pseudo-cinephile, you ask? It's pretty easy. The pseudo-cinephile will limit themselves, willingly, to the point of having no clue what movies really are, or what they can be. They usually refuse to watch silent films even if they’ve never seen any. They rarely, if ever, watch movies in black-and-white, or even in color if produced before 1970. They don’t believe that animation can tell a mature, adult story, as it’s to be used exclusively for “kid’s stuff”. They also fail to understand that motion pictures are a universal language, made in numerous countries of the world. In other words, they don’t watch foreign films, and usually it's because they fear reading subtitles or they’re downright racist. As if that's not enough, having whittled the “worthy” films down to about five-percent of those in existence, these people also pick and choose between genres! Some say they “don’t like horror,” for others it’s, “I don’t like Westerns.” For others still it’s, “I hate romance movies.”
 

Furthermore, these people tend to possess little knowledge of film directors (the movie industry’s equivalent of a novel’s author, a painting’s painter, or a song’s composer) unless their name begins with Steven and ends with Spielberg. Nor have they any clue about cinematographers, composers, writers, etc. These are the people that make a movie happen. For group three, however, it’s usually all about the actors. Don’t get me wrong, I respect actors as much as any film buff, but they are only one piece of the puzzle with a single purpose: to serve the director. Tom Cruise said it best when he admitted, “film is a director’s medium.” Mel Gibson has stated that he prefers directing to acting because it gives him more control to tell the story his way. Moving on to vicious extremes now, Alfred Hitchcock said, “actors should be treated like cattle,” and Robert Bresson’s style treats them as “models” or “puppets”.

Despite their necessary talents, actors are chess pieces to be manipulated by the filmmaker. Proof can be seen in the career of the wonderful Japanese actor Toshiro Mifune. He made well over one hundred films, but his greatest work as an actor was always found in the same place; the sixteen pictures he made with director Akira Kurosawa. Mifune himself said, “I am proud of nothing that I have done other than with him.” Actually Mifune made some pretty good movies with other directors, but Kurosawa was able to make masterpieces (Ikiru in 1952, Ran in 1985, etc.) without Mifune. So who was more important to whom? Great directors make an actor better. Period.

Alas, it is apparent that the people of group three seem to think "the actors make everything up as they go along,” as Joe Gillis cynically states in Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard (1950). At any rate, trying to talk sense to these people is like trying to help someone who can’t stop gambling or drinking. They are obsessive in the belief that there is nothing wrong with them, and that they are well on their way down the yellow brick road of cinematic truth. Nonetheless, they will forever be the joke that real cinephiles laugh about. My advice to them? Take it to the next level or join group two and stop pretending.

Now for the fourth group: the true movie buffs. Their Blu-ray collection likely spans from the earliest days of cinema to the present time. No country that has ever produced a film is left out. Why? Because in almost every country where films exist, there exist films that are great. Of course, bad films are made around the world too, but that's a given.

Movie buffs don’t pick and choose between genres either. A decent example would be the film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000). Not only is the picture foreign, but it’s also a fantasy created in the Chinese idiom. People seem almost weightless as they fly through the air, walk on tree branches, or run along rooftops in the film’s many spectacular action sequences. This could, potentially, turn off those who are not accustomed to the wuxia genre. However, should one look at Crouching Tiger objectively, it is clearly telling a traditional story in an unconventional way. It is a movie about characters, with the recklessness of youth as a part of the tale, and unrequited love as another. The very same story could have been told in an American fantasy, or even, perhaps, an American drama. Simply because it wasn’t, and because it is, in fact, a Chinese film where people can fly, is no reason, on its own, to dislike it. This is what the true cinephile knows. He/she is open to the styles of other cultures, and is aware that, in the end, humans are humans; any story from any country can, for the most part, be related to by the people of another. That is actually one of the beauties of film, and indeed of any art form; the ability to transcend cultural barriers.

The cinephile also gives credit to the director as the “author” of the film that appears up on the screen. Thanks to the French film theorist André Bazin and François Truffaut, the French director and critic, this was given a name back in the 1950's. They called it "auteur theory" which means that, despite the collaborative nature of filmmaking, the director is the creator and his vision is paramount. Auteur theory has had its critics over the years, including Pauline Kael of The New Yorker, but I am a firm believer in it. There are exceptions, of course, particularly when the directing credit is misapplied. This happened often in the silent era, when the films of Buster Keaton, Douglas Fairbanks, and Harold Lloyd often gave directing credit to others, when all evidence makes it clear these three men possessed, and exercised, full creative control.

There is simply no more accurate way to determine whether a film may be worth one’s time than to consider the filmmaker. A current favorite of mine is Alexander Payne, the writer/director of Election (1999), About Schmidt (2002), and Sideways (2004). Though his latest film, The Descendants (2011), is arguably his weakest, it was still quite good. I went into it with certain expectations based on his previous work, and those expectations were met, for the most part. It’s all about track records. Granted, even directors can slip up, they’re only human after all, but this method remains preferable. Seeing a film because of an actor often results in a great deal of disappointment. Let's take Tom Hanks, for example. One can end up at such extreme ends of the quality spectrum as Turner & Hooch (1989) and Saving Private Ryan (1998).

It’s the same for writers, if indeed the writer isn’t also the director. One can not measure their interest in a film based on the screenwriter, because even the best screenplay can be butchered by a bad filmmaker. Hell, even actress Monica Bellucci, of all people, said, “For me, the most important thing when I make a choice is a director and then, a script. If you have a script that's not great, and a great director, you can make a great movie, but if you have a great script with a director who's not good, never, never are you going to have a good movie. So, for me, the most important thing is the director and their vision."

A recent filmmaker with a very unique style is David Fincher. The dark, dank, and perspiring environments of Alien 3 (1992) don’t look very far removed from those of Seven (1995), The Game (1997), Fight Club (1999), Zodiac (2007), or The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (2011). Also, the way his camera chases victims in the alien’s point-of-view in Alien 3, spinning upside down and gliding along the walls, isn’t far off from his later moves where he sends the camera through walls, ducts, and wiring in Fight Club and Panic Room (2002). My point is, it's a good thing if one enjoys a director’s personal style since it is their imprint, or stamp (not an actor’s, nor a writer’s, or even a cinematographer’s), one will see on any films they’re involved in. If one enjoys Seven, then one will most likely enjoy The Game and Fight Club.

I mentioned that cinematographers don’t always leave an imprint, and I feel the need to elaborate. Granted, cinematographers are the ones actually shooting what is on the screen. They have a vast working knowledge of the way lighting works and how the right lens can mean the difference between success and failure in a scene. I have an immense respect for cinematographers, just as I do for actors and writers, I don’t want anyone to misunderstand. It was even the legendary Gregg Toland who taught Orson Welles most of the ins and outs of the medium. Sven Nykvist, Gordon Willis, Kazuo Miyagawa, Emmanuel Lubezki, Toland, etc. are some phenomenally talented examples. Still, the cinematographer, like the actor, functions as a tool to be used by the filmmaker. The director sees what he wants, as a picture in his head, and aids the cinematographer in selecting angles, how much light to apply in the scene, and very often what lens to use as well (though I suppose this might piss off a veteran cinematographer).

One of the better examples I can think of is the case of Asakazu Nakai and Kazuo Miyagawa, who both worked on Kurosawa pictures at points in their lives. Both are very respected in their field, with Miyagawa often being considered the best ever from Japan. The problem is, Takao Saito, another cinematographer, stated that Kurosawa was extremely easy to work with because he knew exactly what he wanted in every aspect of the shoot. He told the cinematographers precisely what was needed of them, leaving little room to improvise. This is why all of Kurosawa’s pictures look wonderful, regardless of who shot them. In the end, as talented as those cinematographers are, it is Kurosawa’s presence that really creates everything from the quality of the images to the performances of the actors.

Needless to say, it’s the same situation with editors. Even when the director doesn’t do the editing himself, he is either present in the editing room or approving what the editor is doing. For the record, since I seem to be mentioning Kurosawa a lot, he did his own editing most of the time and was considered by many to be the greatest editor in the world. At any rate, the end result, what you actually get on the screen after months of hard work from various collaborators is, without debate, the director’s vision.

Another test to determine the real cinephile from the phony? The real cinephile will get what I'm saying here; the pseudo-cinephile will likely get defensive. The other two kinds of people are off the hook on this one because they probably aren't even reading this. If they are, they likely didn't make it this far because they simply don't care. Not caring at all is fine. It's halfway caring instead of caring all the way that frustrates me.

The Mamoulian Touch

I pride myself on being as unbiased as possible when it comes to movies. For any cinephile worth their salt, the age of the film is unimportant, neither the country in which it was made, nor the genre. Many will say, “I don't like horror movies,” or, “I don't care for romantic comedies.” I'm not one of those people. I have loved films from all around the world in every genre there is. Still, if forced to admit it, at the end of the day, very rarely will I select a musical for my personal enjoyment.

This musical, however, I would watch anytime and with great pleasure. Love Me Tonight is pure magic, even slightly better than Singin' in the Rain (1952), which had been my favorite musical until I first saw this one. Each time I watch it I am reminded of why I love movies so much in the first place. The songs are catchy, the wit and sexual innuendo in the dialogue remain hilarious today, the characters are great fun, and the love story tops most stuff coming out of Hollywood now.

Set in Paris, the picture introduces us to a tailor named Maurice Courtelin (Maurice Chevalier), who has been outfitting the Viscount de Varèze (Charles Ruggles) on credit. The bill has gotten out of hand around the same time Maurice discovers the Viscount has an awful reputation among Parisian tradesmen for never settling his accounts. Maurice decides to travel to the castle of the Duke d'Artelines (C. Aubrey Smith), the Viscount's uncle, to demand payment. Along the way he has a “meet cute” on a country road with Princess Jeanette (Jeanette MacDonald). He attempts to charm the young widow by singing “Mimi”, but she heads off to the castle unimpressed.

Once Maurice arrives at the castle he is intercepted by the Viscount, who tells him he needs a few days to raise the money. He asks Maurice to stay at the castle, and avoids questions by quickly informing everyone that his guest is a baron. Other colorful characters on hand include a trio of aunts serving as a Greek chorus (and resembling Macbeth's three witches), the Duke's sex starved niece Valentine (Myrna Loy), and Count de Savignac (Charles Butterworth), who fails miserably in courting Jeanette.

We all know where this thing is going; Maurice falls for Jeanette, much to the chagrin of Valentine, but his false identity is uncovered. Can a princess love a common tailor? If the plot sounds like a mere trifle, well...it is. Still, while the destination is predictable, the joy of Love Me Tonight is in getting there, and in the characters, songs, and humor. A tremendous supporting cast doesn't hurt; Myrna Loy is one of the most adorable women in film history, and Charles Ruggles is one of my favorite character actors of the thirties.

The picture was directed by the Armenian-born filmmaker, Rouben Mamoulian, for Paramount in 1932. Movies from the late twenties to early thirties are a tricky subject. On the plus side, there was still no Hays Code censoring the content. Couples slept in the same bed, sex wasn't a taboo subject, there were nude scenes, the villain was not always punished for their crime, etc. That would all change in July of 1934, so these pre-Code sound films are like glorious, uninhibited little time capsules. Unfortunately, the introduction of sound set the visual art of filmmaking back about a decade, and these early adopters suffer the most.

It was a learning process, and most directors were slaves to the limitations of immobile microphones and other aspects of early sound recording. To get an exciting sequence with dynamic camera movement, directors like King Vidor (in 1929's Hallelujah!) and Lewis Milestone (in 1930's All Quiet on the Western Front) continued to film action scenes silently, dubbing sound in later. In most movies of the time, the camera was stationary, creating a simple frame for the actors to talk in. Pretty boring, especially compared to the brilliantly inventive late-period silents. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of the incredible Japanese director, Yasujiro Ozu, so I'm not bashing austere minimalism as a stylistic choice. Ozu's camera rarely moved; his images were poetic in their simplicity, but he was never bound to that style by technical deficiencies.

Mamoulian, always rather adventurous and experimental in his stage directing career, was not content to be held prisoner by technology even at a time when most filmmakers were. For his 1929 feature, Applause, he pioneered the use of two microphones which allowed dialogue to overlap realistically. In the earliest sound films, one heard either dialogue or music, but never both together. Mamoulian's innovative use of sound contributed to the eventual creation of multi-track mixing. With City Streets (1931), Mamoulian became the first filmmaker to use voice-over in an American picture. In 1932 he made what is still the best version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and crafted a wildly unique first-person sequence to open the film, putting us right in the shoes of Frederic March's Dr. Jekyll. He directed Becky Sharp in 1935, the first feature-length motion picture to be shot entirely in three-strip Technicolor. Lastly, for what it's worth, he also made the best version of Zorro (yes, even better than the 1920 Douglas Fairbanks original) with 1940's The Mark of Zorro.

For Love Me Tonight, Mamoulian threw in everything but the kitchen sink, and made it work. It is here we witness the first use of a zoom lens and asynchronous sound, yet even more impressive is just how alive and filled with motion this film is. Practically every frame pulsates with energy and creativity. From top to bottom, the cast and crew knock the ball out of the park, and at least three of the wonderful songs by Rodgers and Hart became standards.

Taking a page from his stage production of Porgy, Mamoulian casts a spell over the audience immediately. In the opening sequence, Paris awakens. We see Maurice's little neighborhood as music is created through the everyday actions of sweeping, hammering, drying clothes, etc. Maurice rises in his apartment and begins to sing “The Song of Paree” all the way to work (clearly an inspiration for the "Little Town" sequence in the 1991 Disney film, Beauty and the Beast). It's pure joy, but as fantastic as the opening is, it's topped about five minutes later when Maurice sings “Isn't It Romantic”.

His customer deems the song “catchy” before exiting the shop, and he sings it as he passes a parked cab. The driver starts whistling the tune when he picks up a fare, his passenger catches on and is later overheard singing on a train filled with servicemen. The servicemen march through a field, singing in unison. In this splendid sequence, “Isn't It Romantic” is passed on from person to person across many miles, beginning on that little street in Paris and ending on a palace balcony in the countryside where we are introduced to Princess Jeanette. Now that's cinema.

The dialogue is a real treat too, with pre-Code euphemisms like, “I fell flat on my flute!” At one point Jeanette faints, and the Viscount rushes to Valentine. “Can you go for a doctor,” he asks. She happily replies, “Certainly! Bring him right in!”

Who can resist an exchange like this:

“You know, I had an elder brother who used to faint quite often. He was a nipomaniac.”

“A what?”

“A nipomaniac. He used to go around pinching things.”

“Oh I had a friend like that, he used to pinch business girls in elevators. They had to send him to a cooler climate.”

Or this one, between Jeanette and the Count she wants nothing to do with:

“Count, I'm going to bed.”

“I just came up to join you.”

“Join me?”

“Join you in a little chat before dinner.”

“Not tonight. I've had another fainting spell and my uncle thought bed was the best place for me.”

“I always think that.....if one isn't well.”

Surprisingly, there are those who believe Mamoulian was all flash and little substance, which seems to me an unfair assessment. He was such an enthusiastic technician that his abilities as an artist have been called into question. His critics see him as something of a grand imitator, apparently, with very little style to call his own. It's true the great Ernst Lubitsch had worked with Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette MacDonald on The Love Parade (1929) and One Hour With You (1932), musicals made before Love Me Tonight, and Mamoulian's picture employed the same cinematographer and art director. Many see “the Lubitsch Touch” at work here, and it has been said that Love Me Tonight is the best Lubitsch film Lubitsch never made. As for me, I think it's the best Mamoulian film Mamoulian ever made.

Film critic Andrew Sarris, as well as the Orson Welles crusader and filmmaker Peter Bogdanovich (director of 1971's excellent The Last Picture Show), both prefer The Love Parade, One Hour With You, and The Merry Widow (1934) over Mamoulian's film. I respectfully disagree. As fond as I am of Lubitsch, I would take Love Me Tonight over any of his musicals. Lubitsch was the superior and more consistent filmmaker, but if forced to choose, I would even select Love Me Tonight over the immortal, non-musical Lubitsch classics, Trouble in Paradise (1932), Ninotchka (1939), and The Shop Around the Corner (1940).

It's just that good.

Separate but the Same

Not that I give any credence to the annual Academy Awards popularity contest, but it's a real tragedy to see Asghar Farhadi's A Separation nominated in the wrong category. True, it is a foreign film, but is cinema not among the most universal of languages? The Best Picture award should, at the very least, attempt to celebrate the best film of the year, regardless of origin. Technically, The Artist is French, yet it's the current favorite to win Best Picture. A British film, The King's Speech, won last year. Slumdog Millionaire, another British production with over half its dialogue spoken in Hindi, won Best Picture in 2008. In the last fifteen years, Life is Beautiful (1998) from Italy and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) from Taiwan, were nominated for the Academy's highest honor. A Separation should also be up for the top prize, or nothing at all, as far as I'm concerned. If not for The Tree of Life, this would be my favorite film of 2011.

The Academy was right on, however, in nominating the superb screenplay by the director himself. Easily one of the finest pieces of writing for the screen in years, I was struck by the sheer intelligence and economy of this thing. When I think of the greatest screenplays ever written, including Chinatown (1974), Network (1976), All About Eve (1950), etc., I recall similar attributes. Strong characters, great dialogue, spot-on pacing, and an effective subtext. Typically, I go on and on about film as a visual medium, but A Separation would make for a crackling good read as well. Unfortunately it would lack some marvelous acting on the page, as everyone here is fantastic.

The story, set in Tehran, follows an upper-middle class couple, Nader (Peyman Moaadi) and Simin (Leila Hatami), who had planned to leave Iran together with their ten-year-old daughter, Termeh (Sarina Farhadi). After much procrastination and their visas set to expire, Nader has decided he must stay to care for his Alzheimer's afflicted father, who lives with them. For Simin, this means they must get a divorce, despite their love for one another, so she can leave the country with Termeh. Nader blocks the entire process by refusing to allow his daughter to be taken away.

As Simin prepares to move out of their apartment in protest, she delays the inevitable in a lovely scene, giving Nader one last chance to beg her not to leave. He wants to, we feel, but his pride prevents him. With Simin at her parents', Nader hires a poor pregnant woman, Razieh (Sareh Bayat), to care for his father while he's at work. She desperately needs the job as her husband, Hojjat (Shahab Hosseini), is in a great deal of debt. Razieh can not tell her husband, however, since it is against her religion to be alone with another man, no matter how old or harmless he may be. In a scene that reveals the extent of her Islamic faith, she wonders if it's a sin to help Nader's father clean and dress after wetting himself.

One day when Nader and Termeh arrive home, they discover his father tied to the bed, abandoned and near death. Later, a heated argument ensues between Nader and Razieh; he accuses her of leaving to run errands and fires her, while she insists her sudden absence could not be helped and demands payment. Nader gives her a hard shove out the door. No one specifically witnesses Razieh falling down the stairs, but neighbors rush out after the commotion to see that she appears to have done so. That evening, Razieh suffers a miscarriage, and her irate husband finds out what she was up to behind his back. This event sets the real drama in motion, as Razieh and Hojjat seek justice.

A Separation is one of those rare films that seems never to take a wrong step. There is an awful lot of dialogue, one might even describe the picture as being “talky” if every line didn't feel so crucial to the whole. We see all sides of the story, we understand each character's perspective and motivation. Nader is clearly a good man, he loves his father, his wife, and his daughter. He seems a responsible, respectful citizen. He is stubborn and prideful at times, however, and these traits clash with the personalities of others. I understood this pride, and fully sympathized with his situation. Simin loves her husband dearly, but also wants what is best for her daughter. She finds that she may have reason to be concerned for her child's safety, a fear anyone can understand. Razieh's faith is her strongest attribute, one that guides her every ethical decision. How can one argue with that? Even the hot-headed Hojjat earns our sympathy; he's a desperate, depressed man who lost his job with a family to care for.

I was one hundred percent invested in this film emotionally. It hooked me not by throwing melodramatics in my face, but by leisurely introducing people I grew to care about and placing them in believable situations. No one does anything out of character. One may not agree with every character's decisions, but those decisions never conflict with their unique personalities or convictions. By the end it felt wholly satisfying, honest, and provocative, almost like a work of fine literature. I couldn't wait to turn back to the very first page, and I revisited the film a week later, in fact. Once again, I thought to myself, “What a piece of work.”

The film is Iranian, but it is not political. Tehran is the setting, not the subject. It is a movie about people, with concerns no different than yours or mine, and therefore it strikes a universal chord. It could have been made anywhere, and it would have been equally wonderful. Films such as this can help us to understand that a government is separate from the people, its ambitions not always reflecting that of the people. Admiring this film is not a celebration of Iran, but of humanity and some damn fine storytelling.

I have had the good fortune to travel quite a bit in the last few years. I've seen a lot of Europe and Southeast Asia. I am dying to visit Greece and Turkey, but any further east and my government advises otherwise. We keep hearing about sanctions and a possible Israeli strike on Iran. There is an awful lot of fear mongering going on in the American media, which incidentally ran stories about crazy riots and terrorist threats sweeping Paris during my stay, scaring my family half to death back home, yet I saw nothing of the sort...and I was there. All I know is that if America is involved in a war with Iran in the future, it will not be the fault of people like Nader, Simin, Razieh, or Hojjat.

Please do attempt to see this film free of prejudice and the influence of propaganda. It's a masterpiece, in any culture or language.

Imperfect Lights

City Lights (1931) is one of those movies with a grand, impenetrable reputation built over many decades, like a Citizen Kane (1941) or a Grand Illusion (1937). It lives up to that reputation, for the most part. There are those who consider this to be a perfect movie, however, and I simply can't go that far. Some will say, "There is no such thing as a perfect movie," but I disagree. I have favorite films that I would consider perfect or extremely close to it; obviously they may not be the same films that others consider to be perfect.

For the uninitiated, this silent film directed, written, and scored by the great Charlie Chaplin, was made several years into the talkie era. Chaplin was still the most famous person on the planet, but he believed his iconic character, the Little Tramp, was unfit for sound. Audiences around the world had been made to laugh and cry by the Little Tramp for over a decade, and Chaplin refused to alienate fans of such a universal character. The Tramp spoke through actions, not words. He was understood just as well in France as he was in Japan. Chaplin did not want to choose a language, an accent, or anything else for the Tramp that might push away adoring fans. So it was decided that the Tramp would stay silent in a world obsessed with talkies.

In City Lights, the Tramp (Chaplin) falls for a blind flower girl (Virginia Cherrill). When he buys a flower, she hears the sound of a fancy car driving off and mistakes him for a wealthy man. That evening, the Tramp happens upon a drunk, genuinely rich man (Harry Myers), who he saves from committing suicide. After partying all night with his new friend, the Tramp borrows money and the millionaire's Rolls-Royce to impress the girl he loves. He soon discovers how bleak her situation is; living with her mother in a tiny apartment, about to be evicted. When he finds out about an operation that can cure blindness, he believes he can solve all the girl's problems. The millionaire is a long shot, as he only remembers the Tramp when plastered. So the Tramp sets out to find a job.

As a Chaplin fan since the mid-nineties, I've seen his work for Keystone, Essanay, Mutual, First National, etc., and my first viewing of City Lights came in 1996. I've revisited the film many times over the years. Often I will see a film and think it is above average, perhaps even quite good, but not a masterpiece. Then I will watch it again, successfully gaining a deeper appreciation. This happened to me with Tati's Playtime (1967), Laughton's Night of the Hunter (1955), Malick's Days of Heaven (1978), and so forth. I adore each of those films today, but after a single viewing I considered them to be quite overrated.

I never considered City Lights to be overrated because I loved it the very first time I saw it. Not to the point of labeling it perfect, though. With each successive viewing it never managed to gain that distinction from me. So, what do I think works so extremely well in City Lights, and what does not?

Frankly, the vast majority of this movie is so very superb. The opening sequence with the statue and the gibberish talking politicians. The drunken dinner, complete with near-fights and vigorous dancing. The absurd, but quite hilarious (and marvellously choreographed) boxing sequence. Who could forget Myers' suicidal millionaire? He gives half of the film a darker edge, which I enjoyed, for the most part. Of course, the Tramp's relationship with the blind girl is simply beautiful throughout. The ending, which Pulitzer Prize-winning author James Agee called "the greatest piece of acting and the highest moment in movies", is absolute perfection.

I guess what keeps City Lights from attaining perfection beyond that unimprovable ending, to my eyes, is the episodic feel, one too many coincidences, and some gags that fall a bit flat. These are ultimately minor issues, but I can't ignore them completely.

The swallowing the whistle gag didn't work for me initially, and has never worked for me in sixteen years. I find it a bit too ridiculous to laugh at. The man blowing soap bubbles at the Tramp after believing the soap to be a hunk of cheese was not particularly amusing. The way the Tramp always happens to run into the millionaire, in public, when the latter man is completely inebriated. The way the burglars happen to be in the millionaire's house right when the millionaire gives the Tramp one thousand dollars and conveniently needs a bump on the head to forget his own generosity. Even the way the millionaire remembers and forgets the Tramp based on the level of his blood-alcohol seems a bit much, but I suppose I can accept that.

Being a bit pickier now (too picky, perhaps), I personally dislike when characters get instantly drunk in movies after one or two sips of alcohol. It renders what follows as less believable, somehow, even in a comedy. This same complaint applies to Buster Keaton's Three Ages (1923), for example. In City Lights, the Tramp has two sips and he's falling all over the place in under a minute.

In my humble opinion, a "perfect" movie should feel, to the viewer, like a consistent whole with no missteps along the way. City Lights is so tremendous overall that even the few elements I consider to be missteps can't bring it down much from the high level it usually maintains. For some, I can easily see City Lights being a perfect movie. I wish I felt the same way, and wrote this simply to illustrate for myself and whoever happens to read it, why I don't quite feel the same level of enthusiasm. I adore the movie overall, just not every one of its eighty-seven minutes.

Tree Hugger: Part 2

Terrence Malick, true to his reputation as a “devout Episcopalian”, begins The Tree of Life with a quote from the Book of Job: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?... When the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?” An ethereal mass appears on the screen, a glowing composition of light and energy, moving gently in the darkness. We hear birds, waves lapping at a distant shore, and the voice of Jack (Sean Penn). “Mother. Brother. It was they who led me to your door.”

Is this image intended to represent God? Is Jack saying that his mother and brother helped him to find God? That is for each viewer to decide. One of the most amazing things about The Tree of Life is how differently it has been interpreted. There are those who claim that it shoves Christian propaganda down our throats with all the subtlety of a snuff film (no, that would be Courageous). Others believe the film is “spiritual”, but not specifically about the Christian God or a Christian world view. People have debated whether the film is theist, deist, or pantheist in its approach to God and the natural world. Some have accused the film of supporting the Big Bang, evolution, etc. and of being a “there is no God” piece of trash propaganda.

Personally, I lean toward the Christian reading of the film. If this ethereal light is meant to be “the Alpha and Omega”, then such a theory is supported by the fact that the movie ends as it began, with this same strange image fading in, then out. “The first and the last”. Throughout The Tree of Life, Malick takes interest in the questions and expectations of mankind with regard to a higher power. This image of God, if indeed we are meant to see God in the image, is suitably mysterious for a being we will never even begin to comprehend here on earth. The vision of God as an old, bearded white man in flowing robes seems to me a rather boring simplification of something which should be glorious, all powerful, and well beyond our ability to fathom. This is, after all, the Creator of the universe.

Job was baffled by a God he worshiped, but failed to understand. He was a good man, a man of genuine faith, who nonetheless endured incredible suffering and had the audacity to ask God, “Why?” God went on to put Job in his place, humbling him, proving that he knew nothing of what it meant to be the ruler of the universe. Job wasn't there when God laid the foundations of the earth, no one was, so what can a man know of such things? God revealed to Job just how tiny he was in the infinite scope of existence.

With that opening quote and image in mind, we are introduced to Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien (Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain), who have lost their middle-born son. We don't know the cause, and little does it matter. We see these two parents consumed by grief, filled with doubt and regret. Mr. O'Brien, embodying the harshness of nature, questions his actions. Was he too severe? He laments the fact that the time to make amends has passed. Recalling a moment when he criticized his son over a minor infraction, only to witness the boy striking himself over and over, he mournfully realizes, “I made him feel shame. My shame. Poor boy.”

Mrs. O'Brien, the epitome of faith and grace, is consoled by her mother-in-law: “Life goes on. People pass along, nothing stays the same... The Lord gives and the Lord takes away and that's how he is. He sends flies to wounds that he should heal.”

After crossing a relatively small span of time, we find ourselves in a more modern period, with Jack, the eldest son of the O'Briens. He wanders through his home, which looks about as sterile and disconnected as his marriage. There are no children, both man and wife appear to be focused solely on their careers. Taking a seat at the kitchen counter on what must be the anniversary of his brother's death, Jack lights a blue candle and remembers. “I see the child that I was. I see my brother. True. Kind. He died when he was nineteen.”

Jack, who we infer is an architect based on the blueprints he alters, appears equally disoriented and depressed in the workplace. He finds himself daydreaming about his childhood. This world of glass, steel, concrete, and office cubicles jammed together reminded me of Jacques Tati's Playtime (1967), which focused on the absurdity of it all. In The Tree of Life, it's about the isolation. Nothing natural exists here, nothing of God or a higher power, this is all man-made, and Malick seems to believe this distances mankind. From what, exactly?

In my view, Malick is saying this modern metropolis puts a wider gap between man and the Garden from which he has been expelled. In Genesis, when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, they were banned from the Garden by God and denied the fruit of the Tree of Life, which granted immortality. Christians, as well as people of other faiths, believe immortality can still be earned, however. Life, essentially, becomes a quest for immortality, The Tree of Life, the Holy Grail, whatever you want to call it. Most people, including Jack, seem to be getting further and further away from it. In a physical sense, Jack's world of skyscrapers is far removed from the natural world of God's Creation.

In fact, we see a close-up of a lonely tree planted at a construction site in the moment when Jack says, “How did I lose you. Wandered. Forgot you.” Jack has lost sight of God and everything the Tree of Life represents. We discover later that his brother was, for him, a gateway of sorts. A guide. This too was lost. We hear his brother's voice, “Find me.”

Jack imagines himself in his parent's home shortly after his brother's death. Mr. O'Brien closes the key lid on the piano; did he stop playing after the death of his child? “How did she bear it,” Jack wonders of his mother. He caresses her hair by the window. We hear her cry out in grief.

Despite all consolation, all words of encouragement, Mrs. O'Brien struggles mightily to accept the tragedy of her son's passing. What did God gain, she wonders, by taking him away from her. “Was I false to you,” she asks. She finds herself questioning God, as Job did. We see the strange mass of light and energy again as she gives voice to her plight. “Lord, why? Where were you?”

At this moment the screen goes dark, and one of the finest sequences in recent film history begins. As the score turns to Preisner's “Lacrimosa”, we witness the birth of everything. The universe itself. A celestial tapestry of beautiful nebulae, planets, stars. We see the young earth, a primal landscape of shifting masses and opposing forces; water and fire. It seems the world is taking baby steps of its own; growing, learning. Soon, the first signs of life: a lovely view of jellyfish, predatory sharks, and yes, dinosaurs. This cycle of existence (birth, growth, death, extinction, rebirth), of nature and grace, on such a vast scale serves to humble us as it humbled Job. In the infinite ocean of time and space, even a Caesar or a Napoleon may be lucky to register as a speck on the canvas. Our lives pass by in a cosmic flash, seemingly important to only a select few individuals, and even then for the briefest of instants.

Again, we hear Jack's voice. “You spoke to me through her. You spoke with me from the sky, the trees. Before I knew I loved you, believed in you. When did you first touch my heart?” If Jack asks this of God, then his answer comes almost immediately. We see Mrs. O'Brien's pregnant belly, as Mr. O'Brien places his hand upon it. Then, in a surreal moment Bunuel would have adored, a fully clothed child swims through an underwater bedroom, passing through the door (a symbolic birth canal) that will deliver him into loving arms. Welcome to the world, Jack.

In another fine montage, we see all the simple little moments that shape every being on this planet. Learning to walk and talk. Fear of the unknown, when the toddler is afraid to venture into the attic. The child hiding behind his mother from a barking dog. “Are you afraid,” she asks. The introduction of boundaries, as Mr. O'Brien draws an invisible line in the grass between their yard and the neighbor's. Mrs. O'Brien reads Peter Rabbit to the youngsters, “You may go into the fields and down the lane, but do not go into Mr. McGregor's garden.” Selfishness, when Jack yells at his grandmother, “It's mine!”

Jealousy, of course, rears its head for baby Jack when his brother is born. Unable to monopolize the attention of his parents, he shows his frustration by toppling a box of his brother's toys. Echoes of Cain and Abel, perhaps? People often desire attention and favor, not only from parents, lovers, friends, and co-workers, but from their Heavenly Father, as well. We would like to believe we are that important, as Job did, and Malick is certainly not done ramming this point home.

The boys grow older in this perfectly rendered small southern town (Smithville, TX standing in for Malick's hometown of Waco), under two very opposed parental influences. Nature and grace at war, if you will. Even the tiniest scenes add to this conflict; notice the way the mother playfully wakes her children with ice cubes, while the father storms into the room and rips their bed sheets off. We see playful summer days, but we also notice how carefully Jack (brilliantly played as a youngster by Hunter McCracken) maneuvers around his father at the dinner table, as if one wrong move may set him off. Mrs. O'Brien tries to compliment Jack, but her husband interrupts. He's more interested in Brahms, whose music plays on the record player.

The boys learn what happens when boundaries are crossed. Two men in chains are shoved into a police car. Mrs. O'Brien, instead of passing judgment, gives one of the condemned men a drink of water. The youngest brother asks, “Can it happen to anyone?” Jack prays for the Lord to make him good, but receives a conflicting message from his own father. “Your mother's naive. It takes fierce will to get ahead in this world. If you're good, people take advantage of you.” As an extension of this lesson, he teaches the boys to fight one day in the yard.

Mr. O'Brien is one of those men who had big dreams, he was going to be "a great musician”, but now finds little to be passionate about in life. He speaks about men of whom he is surely envious. He talks about how company executives got where they are (“floated right down the middle of the river”), and about a friend who owns half the real estate in town, despite modest beginnings. He is condescending toward a wealthy neighbor who inherited his fortune. Again, he influences the boys: “Wrong people go hungry, die. Wrong people get loved. World lives by trickery. If you want to succeed you can't be too good.”

Jack sees his father's hypocrisy. He is told not to put his elbows on the table, but his father does. He is told not to interrupt or insult others, but his father does. He is told to be good, then advised otherwise. Jack can not help but question why he should be a good kid when his own father, between occasional bouts of affection, seems a liar and a villain. When the children witness the drowning of another young boy at the river, Jack asks these same questions of his Creator, “Where were you? You let a boy die. You'll let anything happen. Why should I be good if you aren't?”

The other boys respond to death in their own way. The youngest son asks, “Was he bad?” The middle son, whose question resonated the most with me, asks his mother, “Will you die too?” In church, the middle son sees an image of Jesus in a stained glass window as the pastor asks, “Is there nothing which is deathless? Nothing which does not pass away?” The implication being, as I see it, that Jesus is both eternal and the doorway to eternity.

I was seven years old when my father died. Death was something I had heard about for years, I had seen it on television. At that age, one can know of death without having the faintest comprehension of it. This was my wake-up call, when it struck my own family. I instantly discovered that my father was mortal. This could only mean my mother was too, as was I. The shock of this revelation at the time when it occurred can not be stressed enough, and these scenes really spoke to me.

Not long after the boy's death at the river, a fire destroys another boy's home. He survives, but will forever bear the physical scars. Again, Jack is dismayed by the calamities God allows to strike his children. He begins to rebel. The seeds of sexual awakening are planted when he eyes a woman hanging clothes in her yard, washing her bare feet with a hose. She gives him a drink. Later he watches her through a window.

We hear Mr. O'Brien bragging to his children, “Twenty-seven patents your father has, it means ownership, ownership of ideas. You gotta sew 'em up, get 'em by the nuts, if you pardon my French.” He portrays himself as an important man, a man deserving of recognition, reward, and wealth. However, we see Mr. O'Brien in a courtroom failing in his endeavors. “We'll get 'em next time,” his lawyer says. As he's leaving, he reassures himself, “I'm not done yet. Can't say I can't.” Disappointed, he walks alone down a hallway of the courthouse as we hear Jack ask, “Why does he hurt us? Our father?” This question seems to be directed not only at his father on earth, but also his father in Heaven.

In the very next scene, Mr. O'Brien arrives home, showing tenderness initially to the boys. “He lies. Pretends,” Jack says, as he distorts the beautiful music on one of his father's prized records. Then at dinner, Mr. O'Brien's resentment and frustration erupt. He takes his anger out on his children, and later on Mrs. O'Brien. “You turn my own kids against me. You undermine everything I do.” As noted earlier, it would ultimately take the passing of his son to make Mr. O'Brien realize that the shame his children felt was his own.

When Mr. O'Brien leaves on a lengthy business trip, the children celebrate, enjoying a tranquil respite with their mother. We see moments of happiness, boys at play, carefree days filled with laughter, as the mother's grace takes hold. “Help each other. Love everyone. Every leaf, every ray of light. Forgive.” Unfortunately, Jack can not resist the other temptations his father's absence permits. So begins an adolescent rampage that Mrs. O'Brien seems ill-equipped to stop.

With a group of boys from the neighborhood, Jack blows up eggs in a bird's nest, throws rocks through window panes, launches a frog into the air on a firecracker. When his mother tries her hand at discipline, the other boys taunt him. “They're just trying to scare you. Keep you ignorant.” As Jack succumbs to peer pressure, we hear his thoughts, “Things you got to learn. How can we know stuff until we look?” Though Jack is particularly rebellious, this is a natural progression, more or less. Our parents told us not to do things, we did them anyway, and we learned from our mistakes. We hope our children won't make the same bad decisions, but they always do. Such is life. I'm reminded of a Delmore Schwartz quote, “Time is the school in which we learn, time is the fire in which we burn.” Only the passage of time can grant us wisdom, and once wise, we die.

Jack sees his mother washing her bare foot in the yard sprinkler. This reminds him of the woman who gave him a drink that day. He walks to her house, spies on her from behind a tree, then enters the home after she leaves. Inside, he goes to her bedroom and holds her hairbrush, touches a mirror, picks up a pearl bracelet. He removes a nightgown from her drawer and places it on the bed.

In the next scene, Jack is outside running with the gown, desperate to hide it. Clearly terrified of being caught, he sends it down the river. There is a strong implication here that Jack did something resulting in “evidence” being left on the gown. The first couple times I saw the film, I thought, “Surely not.” Now, I firmly believe this is exactly what occurred. When Jack returns home with a guilty conscience, he wants to confess but can not bring himself to do so. Unable to bear his mother's piercing look which seems to have a direct line to his soul, he tells her, “I can't talk to you. Don't look at me.”

It is clear Jack fears his own immorality. “What have I started? What have I done?” He begins to notice and resent the relative grace of his brother. In Jack's eyes, the middle son is favored by his parents. In a lovely, earlier scene we see Mr. O'Brien playing the piano as the middle son, sitting out on the patio with his guitar, picks up the tune and plays it himself. Mr. O'Brien stops, takes notice, and appears pleased. Jack's brother also enjoys painting; he has the artistic connection with his father, and the graceful demeanor of his mother.

So it happens that Jack begins to test his brother. They race and wrestle in the yard. Jack sees him painting at the kitchen table and pours water all over the paper. His mother demands that he come back and apologize. “No!” Jack screams. “I'm not gonna do everything you tell me to. I'm gonna do what I want. What do you know? You let him run all over you.” Jack knows he is doing wrong, and does it anyway. “How do I get back where they are,” he wonders.

When his father returns, Jack can no longer run wild and free. Mr. O'Brien says, “There are things you can't do? Well, there are thing I can't do either.” When Jack talks back and gets shot down, he says, “It's your house. You can kick me out whenever you want to. You'd like to kill me.” He asks his mother, “Why was he born?” Later, he sees his father working underneath the car and considers pulling out the jack. “Please God, kill him. Let him die. Get him outta here.”

Finally, Jack's descent culminates in a betrayal of his brother as they are out shooting a BB gun in the forest. “Put your finger over it. Come on.” Hesitant, but trusting, the boy places his finger over the muzzle. Jack fires, and his brother runs off to cry alone in a field. Jack explains, in a direct reference to Romans 7:15, “What I want to do I can't do. I do what I hate.” Later he hands his brother a board and says, “You can hit me if you want to.” Instead, his brother does not answer violence with violence, he simply forgives. “I'm sorry,” Jack tells him. His brother, standing over him, gently touches his hand, then his shoulder, and finally the top of his head.

At that moment, we see a strong, healthy tree in the yard. Jack has taken a step toward grace. We see the river, once after the betrayal and again after the act is forgiven, which links us to a similar incident in a distant time. This river, much more shallow during the Creation sequence, was the site of a moment of grace within nature. A dinosaur came upon a weaker, wounded dinosaur lying on the rocks. The dominant dinosaur stomped on the weaker dinosaur's head, then relented. In a surprising turn of events, the dominant dinosaur did not destroy the weak one. He simply walked on, and let him be.

“What was it you showed me,” Jack asks. “I didn't know how to name you then. But I see it was you. Always you were calling me.” In another simple, poignant moment we see Jack playing with the neighborhood boy scarred by the fire. They are hopping on cans tied with rope, but the scarred boy's rope comes loose. As the boy tries to fix it, Jack intervenes, repairing it for him. Then he tenderly places his hand on the boy's shoulder, as his brother had done to him. Afterward, he returns home and helps his father in the garden. Jack is moving toward a state of grace, following in the footsteps of his mother and brother. We already know that once he grows older, he will become distant, he will forget. This is what he lost along the way, and what he wishes to find again.

Mr. O'Brien too begins to see the error of his ways. The plant where he works is closed down, and his only option is a transfer to an undesirable job in another city. “I wanted to be loved because I was great. A big man. I'm nothing... ...I lived in shame. I dishonored it all and didn't notice the glory.” Sitting outside on the curb, lost in thought, Mr. O'Brien still wonders how it could have happened to him. “I never missed a day of work. I tithed every Sunday.” When he tells Jack he knows he has been tough on him, Jack replies, “I'm as bad as you are. I'm more like you than her.”

The boys mourn, all three together and separately, knowing they will be saying goodbye to the only home they have ever known. A small Texas town that was, for them, the universe. As their grandmother said, “Nothing stays the same.” The universe is in constant flux. The house is empty, someone else will move in. Left behind are only echoes, memories. Buried mementos under the tree in the yard. Their mother offers a parting message, “The only way to be happy is to love. Unless you love, your life will flash by.” Human lives, for all their brevity, are made meaningful and worthwhile through love, family, acceptance, kindness. We hope these are the echoes future generations will hear.

It may seem that I have summarized most of the film, that I've “spoiled it”, perhaps. Not so. I have seen the picture four times now, and I'm still picking up on things. There are countless riches I have not revealed here. This is an intensely visual film whose images mean different things to different people. I can only offer my reading of the The Tree of Life, I can not predict yours. The “plot” of the film can not be spoiled as there isn't one. One can not point to this movie and say it is about anything specific. It is, quite honestly, about everything. It's about what everything means to you. Your outlook on life? Your religion? Your lack of religion? These factors can make your eyes see The Tree of Life differently than mine, and therein lies its beauty as a work of art.

As I mentioned in my last article, those who do not see film as anything more than simple entertainment will not be ready for The Tree of Life. This is a picture that expects much from its audience, one's mind must prepare itself for that rare thing in a movie theater: intelligent thought. Even though I see The Tree of Life as a Christian film, I'm not sure many Christians will appreciate it. Christians have been inundated for so long with bad art, bad music, etc., I can not help but question whether they will recognize something that isn't spelled out for them. I think too many Christians place a value on the intent, as opposed to the result. For example, if a song praises God in an obvious manner, then it is great by default. I disagree. I think God deserves better music, better films, and so on. Courageous was spoon-fed to a specific audience, but The Tree of Life is an infinitely superior film that can speak to all humanity.

Keep in mind as you watch the final scenes, where characters throughout the film meet again on a seashore; they are only as trite as you choose to interpret them. If you see this as a vision of Heaven or the literal afterlife, then yes, it may follow that, “Malick dropped the ball here.” Personally, I am convinced this is not Malick's vision of Heaven. This is Jack's reverie, after passing through the doorway, and metaphorically completing his journey. For me, this is where all the people who were part of that life's journey, from the most inconsequential to the most instrumental, have gathered. Loved ones, in an ageless state, are reunited. Young, old, there is no time in this place. Notice the hand, aged and withered, becomes young again. It is here that Jack finally understands his mother's resolve. Her heart healed. She gave her child to God, willingly. This is the culmination of one man's spiritual journey through memory, reflection, and introspection to find God and eternity in a world filled with contradictions.

In the end, we see something surprising from this man who, until now, has seemed so cold, so lost. We get a little smile. We see a bridge spanning a river. One state of mind has been left behind, another has been attained. It is accomplished.