TOL: Tell Me A Story

Is this a common question children ask of their parents? "Tell us a story from before we can remember."? I don't know if it is or not, but I know that I myself asked this question many times over as a child. R.L. might have wanted his mother's story for the same reasons I remember wanting mine's- for the merit of a story told from a time before my own when things were different; a time and place before my mother thought of me perhaps as even a possibility; a time when my mother was not a mother but somebody's child, a child like me wandering the world in place of somewhere to be. Actually I never addressed this line as significantly extraordinary- at least within the film- because it seems a perfectly natural question to me. There's the history you learn in school, and then there's the history of your parents who, when you're small, are omniscient and wise beings. 

What does it mean that R.L. asked this question and not Jack? That R.L. is the child that wonders about these kinds of things? Does it mean that he has a greater sense of grace, asking for stories, becoming adept at guitar and painting? R.L. seems to care about these things and appreciate their beauty (their "goodness"/grace?) more than Jack ever does.

If we go along with the idea that Jack, if not the main character, is at least the central character of ToL, perhaps his journey is about realizing that he too has followed the way of nature, like his dad, but perhaps completely by accident. His journey then is to figure a way to find the way of grace, the path that his mother and R.L. followed. It gives us then an idea to tackle about what beauty is in the film- there is beauty in grace, but there's also beauty in nature- the thing of it is that it's how you approach it that matters.

Going into again what I said in class about Dad's music: classical music is a lot like designing a building (see what I did there?). You build it from the ground up and it's a stoic kind of thing. On paper it's all bars and keys and lines, structured and exact. The father reads from sheet music and listens from records from the great classical composers- among them Brahms and Bach. I'm not saying there's not beauty in classical music, because there is, but you're not going to find it by conducting with it or staring at the sheet music of it like Dad does. And Bach's Fugues aren't exactly lullabies.

R.L., when he plays the guitar, doesn't read sheet music. He plays with his father by ear in the piano/guitar scene, and it's interesting how nature and grace overlap in that scene. They coexist harmoniously for a little while, and yet they're still independent of each other. Dad plays by the sheet music and R.L doesn't, but they're playing together.

A Second Look at TOL

There's so much crammed into Tree of Life that I'd honestly forgotten the light-thingy- the lumia- at the beginning of the movie. Honestly, I was with the people in the class that thought it was, at first, a womb, partly because of the colors, but also because of the whispered aspects of the character (Jack? brother? God?) speaking. "Brother, mother, it was they who led me to your door..."

But (and this is going to be hard to admit) maybe the lumia doesn't have to necessarily mean something symbolically. Maybe it's just there to be beautiful and thought-provoking and transcendent. As the light moves and interacts with itself, we're watching it and noting its beauty, but we're also listening really hard to the speaker's whispering. When's the last time you took such notice of someone's whispering as when you had little or no other sensory input? Maybe Malick wants us to pay attention to the speaker, but he's not just going to give us a black screen and some muttering, he's going to present something rare and beautiful because that's what's really going to get the audience thinking.

'Kay, that was painful. I want everything to be a symbol so that I can explain it all away and go to bed happy that I've cracked the secrets of Tree of Life forevermore. But life isn't that easy and neither is Tree. So on to something I might be able to explain better.

Names. Who cares if the characters have names or not? They can be anonymous. It doesn't make them any less individual, and it increases their impact by making them anyone. They could be anybody. They could be that family down the street. They could be yours or mine. Perhaps "Jack" only appeared because he's more of a central character, or perhaps it just ended up that way, or maybe his lone naming is supposed to make you aware that none of the other characters have names- why not? I'm beginning to come to the conclusion that this film wants us to ask questions, and not all of them are going to have answers.

I can't quite hack into the mother and father's roles as far as the ways of "nature" and "grace". I really like the concept, but I think either of the parents could be either of the virtues. The mother is kind and submissive and faithful, and the father is forceful and callous. The father goes through the motions of having faith- saying prayers, going to church, lighting a candle, and the mother through her voice overs seems to have a faith that's more... real? Genuine?

I'm sure there's some irony in that the "way of nature" characterized most by the father is represented through loud noise, planes, and technology like telephones, which in a normal conversation you wouldn't consider natural at all. Is that something significant? After all, the mother is the one floating and climbing trees and lying in the grass with her kids. What is natural? What is grace?

...

By the way, are they Catholic? "The nuns taught us there are two ways to go through life..." Nuns, i.e. Catholic school, would probably lead to a Catholic marriage... I don't know if that's important, because I get the feeling that in this film faith is faith is faith, but the thought occurred to me that while the parents are faithful, it's interesting that they may be Catholic because doesn't (and don't quote me) Catholicism have a lot of rigid rules on how to have faith and talk to God? Interestingly it's the mother that strays from this structure, especially when her son dies. Or is she straying?

I could go on but I think I'll end it with this.

Tree of Life Review

It was either really lucky or really wise that I decided to watch "Tree of Life" with an open mind. Nothing was quite what I expected, but then, what was I expecting?

Some other people didn't like the natural/Creation scenes in the beginning of the movie, but I did. Besides being stunningly beautiful, they told a story of how small we actually are in the great scheme of the universe, and the next "chapter" of the film with the family explained how colossal we are. The last half hour or so got me lost, though. What's with the desert? The people? I can't remember at which point the mother was floating around, but what's up with that, too?

I was brought up on classical music, so the entire soundtrack simply blew me away all by itself. The part with the father and son playing together was really sweet, and I liked the scene with the organ. On another day it might have been sensory overload, but time and place.

About suffering there were some interesting points. I liked how the point was not to get over suffering, but that suffering happens, how it happens, the question of why it happens, and how it affects everyone. The oldest child, when we see him as an architect later on in life (if that's who he is, you never really know) is still grieving over the death of his brother, but the story arc doesn't care about healing him or absolving him from his childhood. We follow his childhood point of view for a while, but I don't really think it matters what happens to him. We're just supposed to see how he looks at things and puts them together as he grows and makes discoveries and gets acquainted with suffering.

I think the thing I liked best about Tree of Life is how it faces reality even while tilting it on it's head. You're not sure whether you're watching a home movie or a documentary or a film on philosophy or even a lecture on religion. You get all of those things doused in real characters, characters that could be real, and I think this is really important and send every point Malick wants to give us right home. And even that Malick's not giving us something to believe in, or shoot us a specific point of view that he thinks everybody has/should have, but that he sort of presents the question and leaves you to figure it out on your own. I love that.

Job, God, and Suffering

You might argue that in most films there's some degree of suffering- after all, it's not a good story unless the main character bounces back from somewhere. But there's suffering, and then there's suffering- losing your significant other to a bad break-up versus losing your child to cancer. It's a wide spectrum and there might be a lot to be said for that- is human existence merely suffering with brief moments of bliss? Most 'layperson' films slide anxiously over the idea of the reality of human suffering, although again, most have elements of it. Characters and societies suffer, but they end up absolved from suffering.

I could wax philosophical for ages on this.

I think there are a lot of films that present suffering and dealing with suffering in one or two or five similar ways (ending in neat little conclusions in which everybody's happy), which is ridiculous because there are 7 billion ways to deal with suffering. Nobody suffers the same, and nobody deals with suffering the same. Sure, you might try to categorize. The five stages of grief. Anger management counseling. Therapy. Drugs. Alcohol. Self-isolation. Madness. Born again Christians.

What I'm trying to spit out here is that the experience of human suffering is difficult to tackle. It's hard to get a grip on because it's like trying to rip out your own heart to examine how it goes. Part of most people's knowledge about suffering is based on faith (more on that in a second) and part on experience. People who go through some immense pit holes and survive the journey to the other side can impart, somewhat, what real suffering means for those who have it easier. And the lightly burdened people can step back and feel blessed, because they are the same, and have not been re-shaped by despair.

We asked, "Why do good people suffer?". I branch out in two directions. I'm a realist- probably there is no reason other than suffering "just is". It's random chance, it happens, move on from it. But I'm also an English major- personally I think, "Well, it makes your story pretty interesting, doesn't it?". Don't know if there's a God Up There, reading our stories individually. For me there doesn't have to be a why, because face it, you're not going get that answer in fine print. There's suffering- there's also happiness. Why is the sky blue? Why aren't tangerines purple? One of the Great Unanswerables. It just is.

Rotten Tomatoes "Tree of Life" Review/Thoughts

At first glance the reviews range from cynical- "Too experimental" "Less Plato than metaphysical Play-Doh" to joyful raving- "Masterful, unforgettable", "A cinematic triumph". Which goes to show that you love this movie or you really hate it.

At the moment I'm thinking, "Jesus, what are we getting ourselves into right here," but I'm also looking forward to Tuesday's screening. You got me, I like thrills- metaphysically blowing my mind out my ears? I'm in. I'm curious to see if I'll love The Tree of Life or hate it, but I'm hoping I'll like it- by which I mean "I really hope I can wrap my head around it and not throw up philosophically in the process".

By most reviewers' accounts, the film is going to be "strange". Yeah, well, have you ever read IT? That's some strange sentiment and I somehow survived the encounter with a couple finger's hold on the story. At this point, if I can handle King, I hope I can handle Malick.

Mostly I'm rabidly curious about what Malick's trying to say with his movie. Quick, let's turn the page to Tuesday and get started.

Our Town: Act III

By the time Act III comes around in "Our Town" you kind of think you have a handle on things. You think that you know what the play's really about- living and growing up and how things change and are never really the same. And it's kind of bittersweet but malleable and the average reader can handle it with a mild sense of nostalgia.

Oh, but then the third act. The third act comes around like a punch in the gut and leaves you sitting there on the metaphorical floor, questioning life and living and death and dying. I'm kind of still reeling. How many days have we woken up and not appreciated waking up? How many nights have we ignored the stars? For how long have we not taken the time to look at our family, our friends, our enemies, and think, "Wow, you know, we're all so young and precious and beautiful, this is what life's really about."? Do we really have to wait until we're dead to realize that life really is wonderful in all it's imperfect, run-of-the-mill variety?

Wilder raises more questions than answers, and when he's not presenting questions he's pushing a point that's so obvious and yet so ambiguous that it's uncomfortable to realize that you might not have faced this question (or is it really a fact of life?) before: what are you doing in life? Are you appreciating it for it's wonders? Are you really making a difference?

The hard, truthful answer is, probably not. Today's busy lifestyle has no time leftover to stop and smell the roses. And when you don't do that, it's kind of hard to make a decent imprint. Most of us will barely make an imprint on those closest to us, let alone all of humankind. So summarily, we're going to grow up and live and maybe get married and have some kids and then we're going to die and that's the end of it. Our gravestones are the only thing, after some time, to mark our existence. And even stones get worn away with time. There's some little question of what waits for us after death, but for now I'd rather focus on the here and now. What's waiting for us today, right in front of us? And how much are we really missing?

Beasts Extended Review

Beasts of the Southern Wild was an original, avant-garde film that pulled you into the world of the Americana bayou as soon as you sat down, and two hours later you came out as if waking from a really fuzzy dream after sleeping outside in fresh air all night. Deep with meaning, full of music and life, there was so much to unravel about Beasts, at first I had no idea what to make of it until the next day or so; it took some time to settle in my brain.

While Beasts does have that dream-like, naive quality from being told from the point of view of a six-year-old girl growing up wild on the flooded side of a levee with a remarkable understanding of the universe, there is also for the viewer a sense of cold reality. Hushpuppy's father's sickness; the storm flooding the Bathtub; the governments attempts to evacuate the citizens when help is not actually wanted- these are things that Hushpuppy sees but does not elaborate on, leaving viewers to do it for themselves. Hushpuppy instead relates deeper narration to us; she explains that everything alive is connected and the same. She considers humans "human-animals", and the mythical aurochs very much real.

The aurochs represented the fantastical parts of the movie- did Hushpuppy really face them, physically or metaphorically, towards the end? What were they there to represent? The wildness of the world? The insignificance of humanity, or our ability to be the strongest beasts? Also a little surreal was Hushpuppy's adventure to "find" her mother, if that's who the woman was. If not, I think it's safe to say that she at least represented the mother figure, who ran away from responsibility and could fry-cook crocodiles. It allows Hushpuppy to plot-wise move on from needing her mother's presence and to be strong entirely on her own.

Hushpuppy's strength is both awe-inspiring and admirable. While she is a resilient child in the beginning, she has to grow throughout the movie into the strong girl leading her people through the flooded Bathtub so confidently. She learns slowly to go through life without father or mother. Encouraged to "Be a man!", she does. She stands completely on her own in her tiny community, making decisions and discoveries alone and apart, standing by the end of the movie with new strength and power, leading an expedition into a new life. This strength remains even through the invasion of the Bathtub by authorities trying to evacuate the community despite their resolve to stay. Their culture remains, however, as pointed out by the NYT article.

The underlying message of environmentalism in the film is not one that I picked up on, necessarily. I didn't find it exactly so potent as some of my classmates seemed to. Sure, it was there, but I think the movie was more concerned about the effects of people on each other and the strength of people individually.

Initially though I knew it was mystical, moving, and spiritual, after deeper thought and discussion I realized that a major theme in Beasts was strength. You don't need anyone or anything to be strong; you need only yourself and your will to get out of any situation with your head held high. It was rewarding and remarkable to see this feat accomplished so well by such a small girl. Go Hushpuppy!

*Favorite quote: "I hope you die, and after you die I'll go to your grave and eat birthday cake all by myself!"

Hugo/Modern Times Paper Intro

In Hugo, the eponymous main character must grow as a person after his father's death, in a world in which death overhangs Paris as much as the heavy, dark winter's clouds. In his train station world, Hugo searches for answers deeper than he suspects- answers about moving on and finding fun again. As the son of a watchmaker, Hugo uses machines as both physical and metaphorical tools to find the answers he seeks, asserting that like machines, all people must have a purpose, because they wouldn't otherwise exist. Paris might be coated in shades of brown and grey, but for Hugo life doesn't have to be that way.

Hugo: Prompt 3 Extended

Modern Times and Hugo seem to have a few of the same ideas going; a good thing, because Hugo is set around the time Modern Times was filmed. Both recognize machines as useful tools, but stress both practicality and the need for creativity and leisure, mechanical or otherwise.

The station inspector explains firmly to Isabelle and Hugo that machines are there to be practical- they are there to work in shops, get on trains, and get off them. There is a time and a place for poetry, et cetera. Yet, the automaton exists for entertainment, and so do movies, which are conveyed as wonderfully magical machines used to express creativity and imagination.

Chaplin uses humor to express these ideas. He is assaulted by an impractical machine that alternately feeds him metal bolts and spills food everywhere. The machine is rejected, but Chaplin's character must find work somehow, and he does so by working factory machines. This gives him a living, but it's an important point in the movie that this is not the only factor of a happy life; necessary too is occasional leisure- like roller skating- and people that love you, demonstrated by the homeless girl friend.

From last week's blog:

Further, if the automaton is also a metaphor for Melies, the broken man, Hugo is really dreaming about Melies, and whether or not he can give the answers Hugo needs. 

Scorsese might be explaining the very real fears of a scared little boy by way of a nightmare. Twisting Melies' 'dream' movies into nightmares would make sense with the excuse of artistic license. Maybe this explains the automaton-Hugo dream?

...he might just be searching for paternal or familial love. After all, he is only twelve.

Does Hugo find the love he wants? We can assume so. Although I don't think that the Station Inspector's saving him from the tracks is significant (we have to assume that the guy has some human decency and would save a kid anyway) I think the climax to the film, the point where the main question is answered, is when Melies claims Hugo as his own. It resolves mostly everything. Hugo gets the paternal care he wants, Melies isn't such a broken down man anymore, and the automaton is fixed and returned to it's creator. A neat ending.

Hugo Essay Prompt #3

Runaway machines in Hugo; what a knot to poke at!

Anyway, upon watching the double-dream sequence again, I noticed a couple of details:

In some ways, the train-dream is almost stupidly humorous. The workers on the train, covered in soot and ash, try to stop the train before it can hit Hugo, who for some reason just stays on the tracks like he'd prefer to be squashed into mashed-Hugo. One of the small problems I had with the film. Come on, Hugo.

Back to the train. We're given a look inside the train car, where the works shout and scream and crank gears and pull switches to try to stop the train's momentum. We see the machinery of the train a little, but then we see three shots of the "face" of the train, where the light is. Bam, bam, bam, closer, closer, closer; it personifies the train a little bit. After this, the train hangs a left and tears through the station as people scatter. It then crashes through the front windows and falling onto the pavement to stand on it's nose, like the Montparnasse derailment of 1895.

All this is what happens physically in the dream. Symbolically, there's a whole lot more. Hugo digs another heart-shaped key from the tracks, which has "Cabret et fils, horlogers", or "Cabret and son, watchmakers" engraved on it. Perhaps this key is symbolic- Hugo's searching for answers about his father, which he feels the automaton can give him. Further, if the automaton is also a metaphor for Melies, the broken man, Hugo is really dreaming about Melies, and whether or not he can give the answers Hugo needs. Or maybe Hugo's not really searching for a black and white answer, per say- his father is dead, his uncle is AWOL, and that is that- he might just be searching for paternal or familial love. After all, he is only twelve. Can a twelve-year-old pick apart complex emotions, or does he simplify it by way of automatons?

You might also explain the train crash scene symbolically- at this point in the movie, Melies has rejected Hugo after the incident with the flying papers. Hugo's hopes of answers are crumbling. What better than this train catastrophe to symbolize this? A train, which is a machine in itself, ripping through Hugo's home, and it's all his fault?

As to why a double-dream, I can't really get a grip on that question. Two symbolic scenes in one?

Bit long, sorry.

NYT Review: Hugo

"The movie itself is a well-lubricated machine, a trick entertainment and a wind-up toy, and it springs to life instantly in a series of sweeping opening aerial shots that plunge you into the choreographed bustle of the train station."

Really interesting and eloquent way to put it; I hadn't thought of Hugo being a machine in itself. Presented like this, it's fantastical quirks don't matter so much, because they are meant to be there. They breathe life into the film and make all it's plots, sub-plots, and characters work together. It mentions the opening as the cog that makes the movie work too; didn't we mention that in class?

Hugo Two Part Review

I: Extended Review

The first thing I take note of in movies is the setting; the post World War I Parisian train station has a lot of potential for enchanting a viewer, and I feel like this was efficiently done- the movie was full to bursting with near fantastical. It wasn't so much that events were unreasonable, but that they were presented in a way that was almost dream-like, which I liked a lot. Hugo's double dream was interesting; but haven't we seen that train falling out of the window before? I also liked the beginning of the movie, where we see visually the analogy of a Paris roundabout working like a machine, which Hugo later references in terms of people. Talking with my partner made me realize this point a little more clearly. If all people, like machines, had a purpose, what was the purpose of some of the minor characters, like Uncle Claude and the Inspector's police friend?

The convenience of certain plot points was a little much- Isabelle having the key to the automaton (heart-shaped, no less), Papa Georges being the true owner of the machine, the automaton drawing the exact image of the moon that reminds Hugo of his father...Just a little cliché. Yet it's a film meant for children, if not for families, so I can let it go.

Back to the setting, I really liked the presentation of a post-war world, in which people are afraid to let loose and have fun, nobody is overly joyful, and the death and destruction of the war still hangs over everyone's head. The colors too were significant to me- the grey, black, and brown world of Paris contrasts with Melies' films, which abound with color, life, and playfulness. Watching the films within the film, I realized that the actors on the old films had more sense of fun than Isabelle or Hugo did, which only backs up the idea that the world they grew up in was devoid of any real play or laughter.

This, to me, is the premise of the film. The magic of film is the door opened with imagination. It's a machine, same as a gun or a bomb, but the way in which you use it makes it just as powerful because it spreads fun, color, and joy. Dreams woven into reality. I think there were more themes to Hugo: having a purpose, never giving up on your dreams, but these were all under the overlying theme of the magic of cinema.

II: Content and Form

In the beginning moments of Hugo, there is the analogy of the machine-world, as I mentioned before. But there's also an astute use of sounds to draw the viewer in to the world. The wind, the ticking of the clocks, the whistling of trains and bustling chatter of people.

The camera movements were also important. Beginning with a sweeping wide shot of the city, the camera sails into the station as a train would upon entering. The camera moves through a throng of people, and while their faces are blurry, we can still hear them talking, laughing, walking. They are important because these people make up the busy background of the movie: the train station. Finally, the camera tilts upwards towards a clock in the middle of the station, pausing on the clock's face, behind the four of which is Hugo's face.

The little excursion through the train station is effective to get us firmly planted in the world of Hugo, in which all the important aspects of setting, background, colors, and the background train station noise are established, even before we meet any characters or plot points at all.

Kinetoscopes and Time: Thoughts

"The Kinetoscope of Time" is a successful short story because it wasn't just a linear, something-happened-to-someone story. I was actually pleasantly surprised to find that these seven or eight pages knocked me back into my seat to think for a while about film and time, truth and fiction. (And in literature at least, isn't that the point?) And the hall where the narrator peeks into the kinetoscopes, draped with velvet? Pretty close to a cinema curtain!

Interesting to me in the short story is the amazement of the narrator peering into the kinetoscope as "the darkness took shape and robed itself in color"; nowadays, the layperson walking down the street would be just as amazed at the feat of looking down into a box with eyeholes to see pictures moving; if only because kinetoscopes are archaic. But the wonder is the same. My suggestion would be, if man can look backwards and forwards and slantwards at the merest suggestions of his mind- isn't he limitless?

As a modern-day reader it took me a while to figure out that the scenes he was looking at were short glimpses of histories- or stories. Until The Scarlet Letter I had no idea that they were other works at all. After that it was very intriguing. I recognized the Crusades, the battle between the Indians and the Europeans, and I'm still wondering what other scenes were truth and which were fiction.

Finally, I liked how the narrator exits the little world of darkness and time and reenters his "actuality" with elevated traincars, electric light, and cable cars. Modernity. Truth. Out of one world and into another, making them two different spheres of experience.

Actually, not yet finished.
"Time"- was he Time or wasn't he? Who is the "Monsieur le Comte Cagliostro"? An Italian? And what were the "lines of fire" that drew the narrator forward?