Bright Wall/Dark Room.
4 days ago
permalink
A Field in England (2013)

image

THERE ARE NO SIDES HERE, FRIEND.

by Karin L. Kross

“What do you see, friend?”
“Nothing—perhaps—only shadows.”

In many reactions to Ben Wheatley’s seventeenth-century trip movie A Field In England—including my own, the first time I watched it—there’s a common theme of what the hell did I just see? What are you supposed to make of the rowan-wood stake and rope required to drag a man out of a fairy ring—an enchanted ring of mushrooms—especially since you might not even know that was what was going on until you read an interview with Wheatley? What happens during and after the intense, hallucinatory mushroom-trip sequence? Why are dead characters apparently coming back to life? This is the director they tapped to direct the first two episodes of the next season of Doctor Who? What’s going on?

One interpretation—for which J.J. Abrams and Lost probably have something to answer, and which Wheatley has danced around a bit—is that the whole thing is taking place in Purgatory, and that the cowardly scholar Whitehead (Reece Shearsmith), the deserting soldiers Friend (Richard Glover) and Jacob (Peter Ferdinando), and the menacing alchemist O’Neil (Michael Smiley) and his henchman Cutler (Ryan Pope) are enacting some kind of mutual and self-inflicted punishment. It’s a convenient explanation for Whitehead’s visions of a dark planet filling the sky, the apparent resurrection of Friend, and any number of other bizarre, not-easily-glossed moments.

But maybe it’s a little too simple a reading for such a compelling, suggestive film, one that inhabits so many different types of liminal, borderland spaces. The field itself is untilled land that lies between the chaos of a brutal battlefield and the peace of a rural alehouse. The men who occupy this field themselves exist in a historical space between science and magic, between blind obedience to an absolute power and a government defined by the will of the people. They are pushed deeper into the gap between the real and the imaginary by a batch of hallucinogenic mushrooms. In seeking the secrets of this field, they draw down evil upon themselves, but it is no more or less than the evil that they have already brought in with them.

image

“My master predicts that impending events will stagger the monarch and kingdom.”

The seventeenth century and the English Civil Wars have yielded a fairly striking harvest in British cinema: A Field in England has amongst its antecedents Kevin Brownlow’s documentary-style Winstanley and the horror films Witchfinder General and Blood on Satan’s Claw. This is one of those transitional periods in European history: neither the Renaissance nor the Enlightenment, a time of enormously complicated turmoil. This can make these periods difficult to teach or summarize. If you came up through the American educational system like I did, it’s entirely possible that you might not have known until fairly late that England had a civil war—or more correctly, three civil wars, fought in fairly rapid succession between 1642 and 1651. In brief, they were a series of conflicts over the governance of England, fought between the supporters of King Charles I, who backed Charles and his belief in the king’s divine right to rule and absolute power, and Parliament and its supporters, who sought to invest more power in a representative form of government (depending on who you asked and when, either a constitutional monarchy or a true republic).

Those interested in the details would do well to start with episodes 1-16 of Mike Duncan’s Revolutions podcast; such discussions are beyond the scope of what we’re about here. We’re less interested in the political and military movements of the Cavaliers and the Roundheads—or even what sides our characters are on—than with the social situation created by the wars. To borrow a phrase that has gotten quite a lot of use with regard to this subject, it was a period in which the ordinary citizen would have believed the world was turned upside down.

These tumultuous years contributed toward a climate of wildly disparate and strongly held beliefs, both religious and civil. In this era, people like the lecherous and avaricious title character of Witchfinder General could leverage a genuine fear of witchcraft for personal gain. There was an actual faction in the government at this time known as the Fifth Monarchists, who believed that the war was paving the way for the rule of Christ Himself on Earth. In a dramatic arc of social mobility, Oliver Cromwell was a fairly ordinary gentleman of good family who rose to become Lord Protector of England, king in all but name. Meanwhile, activist Gerrard Winstanley preached a kind of Christian communism that held that God intended the Earth to be “a common treasury for all”—you can see how that turned out if you watch Winstanley, a beautiful, spare film that draws heavily on his writings to tell the story of the failed Diggers settlement on St George’s Hill in 1649, and which Wheatley has cited as an influence on A Field in England. It was a messy era of history, full of little insurgencies and revolutionary movements and cults, in which the faith of the average man or woman in Church and State was shaken and broken down. It’s a perfect time, in other words, for the highest and strangest drama.

image

“The world is turned upside down, Whitehead, and so is its pockets. Yes, make a note of that, Cutler, for my memoirs and recollections.”

Winstanley opens with a scene of pitched battle between Parliamentary and Royalist forces; the opening of A Field in England might be taking place on the other side of a hedgerow from that very battle. References to Cromwell’s victory over the Welsh at Pembroke and to the King place the action of A Field in England in 1648, during the First Civil War and before Charles’s execution in January 1649. Whitehead, a nervous scholar with a hobby in lacemaking, escapes from a battle, pursued by a mercenary who curses him for his cowardice and his failure in an unnamed mission. But the mercenary takes a pike through the chest and Whitehead falls in with a trio of deserters from both sides of the battle—simple Friend, sardonic Jacob, and enigmatic Cutler.

The quartet set out across a field with the promise of an alehouse where they might rest, get a drink, meet some women. Instead they are waylaid: first by a meal of psychedelic mushrooms found in the field and prepared by Cutler—of which Whitehead pointedly does not partake—and second by an Irishman named O’Neil, who turns out to be the object of Whitehead’s mission. O’Neil has stolen some papers from the learned gentleman of Norwich who is their master. Rather than arresting O’Neil, however, Whitehead falls under O’Neil’s power instead, his own weak will forced into subservience as O’Neil and Cutler force compel Whitehead, Friend, and Jacob to search the field for a buried treasure—an errand that will not turn out well for anyone.

image

“If you do not cease, we may be blasted by an ill planet.”

A Field in England can take place in no other time than the peculiar borderline years of the English Civil War, and knowing a bit about it can help a great deal in unpacking one’s confusion. It helps to know, for instance, that Wheatley intended the highly stylized still tableaux that punctuate the film to echo the stilted postures of seventeenth-century woodcuts. And when you realize just how tightly science and magic are married in this world, your understanding of the film can change dramatically. This is a time where the supernatural is just as real to people as the gout, hemorrhoids, and venereal ulcers afflicting Jacob.

Take Whitehead—by the standards of his era he is something of a scientist, having knowledge of “physick” such that he can diagnose Jacob’s astounding array of diseases and afflictions and offer a sort of herbal poultice as a treatment. At the same time, Whitehead notes in perfect seriousness the “angel” that Cutler wears, a coin indicating that he has been touched by the King as a divine cure for scrofula. As well, Whitehead is also an astrologer and a kind of seer, whose gifts in this regard are regarded by O’Neil—despite his overwhelming contempt for the other man—to be greater than his own, and that’s why O’Neil puts Whitehead to some unspeakable ordeal that turns him briefly into a kind of human scenthound, racing through the field on the end of a rope to sniff out the treasure that is supposedly buried there.

image

To survive and escape O’Neil’s malign influence, Whitehead must overcome his cowardice and his faltering, blind obedience. In this world where the rational and the mystical blur into indistinction, the way out comes through psychedelics. Whitehead devours handfuls of the mushrooms he forwent earlier, and the resulting visions grant him the strength to confront his oppressor. The wind that strikes down O’Neil’s tent while somehow leaving its contents untouched—is it an actual magical wind, perhaps with its source in Whitehead’s “ill planet”, or is it Whitehead’s drugged visualization of an act of rebellion that he has finally found the will to commit? We have ventured by now so far into the realm of the uncanny that both interpretations are possible, and neither is mutually exclusive.

Understanding the border spaces of reality and history inhabited by the characters is one of many means by which we can negotiate our bewilderment over the intensity of the mushroom trip and the fantastical events, visions, and resurrections. But it’s by no means the only way; even without a complete understanding of the historical period, it’s possible to find your way through the beautiful, hallucinatory images devised through Laurie Rose’s cinematography and Ben Wheatley and Amy Jump’s editing—to simply accept everything without trying too hard to interpret it—and you will find yourself confronting a deeply elemental, blackly comic story of men attempting to wrest control of their own destinies from others who would dominate and subjugate them. Is there any real magic in this story, or is it just the mushrooms and an unreliable point-of-view character? The answer, for Whitehead and for us, is yes. And yes.

image

Karin Kross lives in Austin, TX, where she writes and maintains an unhealthy fixation on past eras. She tweets and tumbls, and is a contributor at Tor.com.

Comments
5 days ago
permalink
Coming very, very soon:
A brand new issue, focusing entirely on the films of Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson - get it the minute it’s available by subscribing to Bright Wall/Dark Room Magazine now!
We’re putting the finishing touches on it as we speak, and can’t wait for you to see it. As our art director, Brianna Ashby, is possibly the biggest Wes Anderson fan on the planet (yes, she’s even had theme parties), you can just imagine how much fun she had doing the artwork for some of these. Consider this cover a taste of things come!

Coming very, very soon:

A brand new issue, focusing entirely on the films of Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson - get it the minute it’s available by subscribing to Bright Wall/Dark Room Magazine now!

We’re putting the finishing touches on it as we speak, and can’t wait for you to see it. As our art director, Brianna Ashby, is possibly the biggest Wes Anderson fan on the planet (yes, she’s even had theme parties), you can just imagine how much fun she had doing the artwork for some of these. Consider this cover a taste of things come!

Comments
permalink
brightwalldarkroom:

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS! 
Do you want to write for Bright Wall/Dark Room? We are officially opening up the submission process for our May issue at this point, which will be revolving around an “End of the World” theme.
So, if you have an idea (or an essay) that you think might work within that theme, contact us via email (bwdr.editors@gmail.com) or pitch us something directly on our Submittable page. If it’s something we can work with, we’ll be in touch in the very near future — and you could see your piece published in our May issue.
ps: Our April issue, focused entirely on the films of Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson (“The Magnificent Andersons”), will be out in just two days!

brightwalldarkroom:

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Do you want to write for Bright Wall/Dark Room? We are officially opening up the submission process for our May issue at this point, which will be revolving around an “End of the World” theme.

So, if you have an idea (or an essay) that you think might work within that theme, contact us via email (bwdr.editors@gmail.com) or pitch us something directly on our Submittable page. If it’s something we can work with, we’ll be in touch in the very near future — and you could see your piece published in our May issue.

ps: Our April issue, focused entirely on the films of Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson (“The Magnificent Andersons”), will be out in just two days!

Cite Arrow via brightwalldarkroom
Comments
6 days ago
permalink
"If we were establishing a monument to Joan (not the worst idea ever), I’d demand it be two-fold. Half to honor whatever fantastical genetic engineering delivered her impossible physique. And the other half to her strength. There is an inexorable calm and mettle to Joan that makes me want to cry. I am petrified by her unflinching judgment and intoxicated by her ability to graciously deflect everything in which she does not wish to become entangled.
I am confused by her grace, so foreign to my brash, clumsy earnestness. By her ability to lead without recognition and keep afloat on the delicate crust of tactful, unceasingly appropriate professionalism that I’ve smashed through always, despite every attempt to be above gossip and provocation and injustice. How she manages the office and the men who pursue her and the women who begrudge her and the husband who fails her and does it all without stooping to tears but once.
For my part, I’ve almost never felt something I did not verbalize. Every emotion has gushed through me in loud roiling riptides and tsunamis. Erupting in howling wails at lovers and tears at work. In depthless anger and longing at parents and in wild, reckless joy at kindred spirits.
And anything I have not yelled, I have written and shared and over-shared. I own absolutely none of Don’s acumen for compartmentalization, none of Joan’s elegant ability to brush aside that which might be uncomfortable to hear. No share of Roger’s almost total irreverence, Anna Draper’s easy forgiveness, Sally’s preternatural calm.
As loudly and plainly as possible, I have presented my laments and talked through them laboriously. After all of which, you can assume: When I am devastated, you will know it. My comfort zone is the cacophony of modern desperation. When we are unhappy—incidentally or profoundly—there are an unbearable number of mediums to broadcast it and no expectation to hide it.
So this is the aspect of Mad Men that scares me most: the implication that every single character is so discreetly and quietly unhappy. Am I the only one that feels almost every last character is (to varying degrees and levels of awareness) desperately, wildly, deeply, paralyzingly unhappy? So unhappy they grapple and tear at and stampede and betray and smother each other in some savage effort to salvage their own lives.
Or maybe I am projecting. It’s impossible to tell if they’re happy, because they speak of the concept so infrequently it’s as though it has never even occurred to them. But I know I have never burned down a version of my life in which I was actually happy. Dumb and selfish and impulsive and impetuous as I have been in my youth, every single time I did the wrongest thing, it was not in an effort to hurt anyone else but solely to save myself (whether I realized it then or later).
And this crew? They are the most proficient of emotional arsonists.”
—Erica Cantoni, ”I Won’t Have My Heart Broken” (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. June 2013)
(To read the rest of this essay, and the entire issue it originally appeared in, click here.)

"If we were establishing a monument to Joan (not the worst idea ever), I’d demand it be two-fold. Half to honor whatever fantastical genetic engineering delivered her impossible physique. And the other half to her strength. There is an inexorable calm and mettle to Joan that makes me want to cry. I am petrified by her unflinching judgment and intoxicated by her ability to graciously deflect everything in which she does not wish to become entangled.

I am confused by her grace, so foreign to my brash, clumsy earnestness. By her ability to lead without recognition and keep afloat on the delicate crust of tactful, unceasingly appropriate professionalism that I’ve smashed through always, despite every attempt to be above gossip and provocation and injustice. How she manages the office and the men who pursue her and the women who begrudge her and the husband who fails her and does it all without stooping to tears but once.

For my part, I’ve almost never felt something I did not verbalize. Every emotion has gushed through me in loud roiling riptides and tsunamis. Erupting in howling wails at lovers and tears at work. In depthless anger and longing at parents and in wild, reckless joy at kindred spirits.

And anything I have not yelled, I have written and shared and over-shared. I own absolutely none of Don’s acumen for compartmentalization, none of Joan’s elegant ability to brush aside that which might be uncomfortable to hear. No share of Roger’s almost total irreverence, Anna Draper’s easy forgiveness, Sally’s preternatural calm.

As loudly and plainly as possible, I have presented my laments and talked through them laboriously. After all of which, you can assume: When I am devastated, you will know it. My comfort zone is the cacophony of modern desperation. When we are unhappy—incidentally or profoundly—there are an unbearable number of mediums to broadcast it and no expectation to hide it.

So this is the aspect of Mad Men that scares me most: the implication that every single character is so discreetly and quietly unhappy. Am I the only one that feels almost every last character is (to varying degrees and levels of awareness) desperately, wildly, deeply, paralyzingly unhappy? So unhappy they grapple and tear at and stampede and betray and smother each other in some savage effort to salvage their own lives.

Or maybe I am projecting. It’s impossible to tell if they’re happy, because they speak of the concept so infrequently it’s as though it has never even occurred to them. But I know I have never burned down a version of my life in which I was actually happy. Dumb and selfish and impulsive and impetuous as I have been in my youth, every single time I did the wrongest thing, it was not in an effort to hurt anyone else but solely to save myself (whether I realized it then or later).

And this crew? They are the most proficient of emotional arsonists.”


Erica Cantoni, ”I Won’t Have My Heart Broken” (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. June 2013)


(To read the rest of this essay, and the entire issue it originally appeared in, click here.)

Comments
6 days ago
permalink
"I have forgotten all the major stories, and yet I could carve in bone my memory of a dozen tiny, quiet scenes:
Betty, sitting in a late-day Roman glow, her hair whipped and molded into a European chignon. Looking so modern it was as if she alone dragged in the backdrop change, inventing the ’60s. As if she’d finally shed the kids like a dead skin or a fire and emerged, victoriously golden. Reborn. How the Italian men hit on her and insulted Don when he approached, as a stranger. Which was perfect, right? Because how long had it been since they’d known each other at all? I’d etch in how he fell back in love, madly so, with Betty for two days. With this restored, empowered version of her. All cold upper class beauty, all superiority, all linguistic-flexing power. Too good for him, which is the key to everything.
I’d etch the repose of Roger’s tired face when he calls Joan late at night, with Jane, the regrettable wife, passed out beside him.
Peggy’s hand on Don’s after Anna dies. This single brief touch a complete swelling orchestra composed to explain the depth of their bond and its tenuousness. How vital and still wildly vulnerable this tie is in the possession of a man so accustomed to scorching any tenderness entrusted to him.
Everything encompassed in the moments Don calls Betty “birdie.” The whole rattling film projection of their courtship and marriage and children and infidelities and lies and second tries and reheated dinners. And the end that Betty pretends comes with the bang of Dick Whitman’s betrayal, and not years of whimpers. Every aching sweetness remains in “birdie,” somehow fossilized and surviving but useless as a mate-less bull.
The literal restraint of the characters—their buttoned-up loneliness. The moments of elegant non-response and suffocated reaction. The things they do not tell each other, the fights they don’t finish, the slaps that aren’t delivered. The communicative release they never allow themselves (even as it might be their salvation).
Sometimes, I find myself watching  Mad Men through a sort of fantasy lens, as if it were an underwater ballet. A cold, slow-floating drift of Asian dance and sad, silent theater.
It’s hypnotizing.”
—Erica Cantoni, "I Won’t Have My Heart Broken" (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine, June 2013)

"I have forgotten all the major stories, and yet I could carve in bone my memory of a dozen tiny, quiet scenes:

Betty, sitting in a late-day Roman glow, her hair whipped and molded into a European chignon. Looking so modern it was as if she alone dragged in the backdrop change, inventing the ’60s. As if she’d finally shed the kids like a dead skin or a fire and emerged, victoriously golden. Reborn. How the Italian men hit on her and insulted Don when he approached, as a stranger. Which was perfect, right? Because how long had it been since they’d known each other at all? I’d etch in how he fell back in love, madly so, with Betty for two days. With this restored, empowered version of her. All cold upper class beauty, all superiority, all linguistic-flexing power. Too good for him, which is the key to everything.

I’d etch the repose of Roger’s tired face when he calls Joan late at night, with Jane, the regrettable wife, passed out beside him.

Peggy’s hand on Don’s after Anna dies. This single brief touch a complete swelling orchestra composed to explain the depth of their bond and its tenuousness. How vital and still wildly vulnerable this tie is in the possession of a man so accustomed to scorching any tenderness entrusted to him.

Everything encompassed in the moments Don calls Betty “birdie.” The whole rattling film projection of their courtship and marriage and children and infidelities and lies and second tries and reheated dinners. And the end that Betty pretends comes with the bang of Dick Whitman’s betrayal, and not years of whimpers. Every aching sweetness remains in “birdie,” somehow fossilized and surviving but useless as a mate-less bull.

The literal restraint of the characters—their buttoned-up loneliness. The moments of elegant non-response and suffocated reaction. The things they do not tell each other, the fights they don’t finish, the slaps that aren’t delivered. The communicative release they never allow themselves (even as it might be their salvation).

Sometimes, I find myself watching  Mad Men through a sort of fantasy lens, as if it were an underwater ballet. A cold, slow-floating drift of Asian dance and sad, silent theater.

It’s hypnotizing.”


Erica Cantoni, "I Won’t Have My Heart Broken" (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine, June 2013)

Comments
permalink
OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS! 
Do you want to write for Bright Wall/Dark Room? We are officially opening up the submission process for our May issue at this point, which will be revolving around an “End of the World” theme.
So, if you have an idea (or an essay) that you think might work within that theme, contact us via email (bwdr.editors@gmail.com) or pitch us something directly on our Submittable page. If it’s something we can work with, we’ll be in touch in the very near future — and you could see your piece published in our May issue.
ps: Our April issue, focused entirely on the films of Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson (“The Magnificent Andersons”), will be out on Tuesday!

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Do you want to write for Bright Wall/Dark Room? We are officially opening up the submission process for our May issue at this point, which will be revolving around an “End of the World” theme.

So, if you have an idea (or an essay) that you think might work within that theme, contact us via email (bwdr.editors@gmail.com) or pitch us something directly on our Submittable page. If it’s something we can work with, we’ll be in touch in the very near future — and you could see your piece published in our May issue.

ps: Our April issue, focused entirely on the films of Wes Anderson and Paul Thomas Anderson (“The Magnificent Andersons”), will be out on Tuesday!

Comments
1 week ago
permalink
Requiem for a Dream (2000)

image

ANYBODY WANNA WASTE SOME TIME?

by Danielle Lee

Those bludgeoning violins. Ellen Burstyn’s terrorizing fridge. Jared Leto’s arm. Three chanted words at a graphic sex show. 

Everyone has that scene they’ll cringe and remind you of when you tell them you masochistically chose to watch Requiem for a Dream a third time for the purpose of analysis. Or in my mom’s case, one exasperated word: “Danielle!!”

To be fair, she was the one I called crying after that ill-advised second viewing a few years back, in the throes of a year-plus unemployment depression, thinking Darren Aronofsky’s stylish portrait of spiraling junkies would somehow assuage my own privileged distress over my rapidly progressing long-distance relationship with the recorded voices at the New Jersey Department of Labor and Workforce Development.

It didn’t.

image

image

Requiem for a Dream doesn’t offer the detached viewing option that other similarly well-made movies in that implicit “only-watch-once” genre do, in their moments of sheer fantastical over-the-top-ness. (See: Oldboy’s incredible hallway slaughter.) No, Aronofsky creates such a visceral, sensory viewer experience with his adaptation of Hubert Selby Jr.’s novel that, although veering on clunky at times, it never really leaves your bloodstream.

The aforementioned “Lux Aeterna” song, operating as a surrogate heartbeatfor the film, thuds in escalating concert with the characters as their situations become increasingly grotesque—tactile close-ups in split screens; feverishly fast-cut, Foleyed sequences of the characters getting high. Actor-mounted cameras that quickly switch between subjective POV shots and their 180 degree opposite close-ups, capturing those characters’ (often tragic) reactions to the brutal scenes they’ve found themselves in.

image

All of these unique stylistic choices ensure the characters’ narratives enter your veins and practically indict you in their respective downfalls.

The film circles around protagonist Harry (Jared Leto), the Brighton Beach native with drug empire dreams that soon become disastrous as his heroin addiction advances. Joining him are his girlfriend, Marion (Jennifer Connelly),whose own fashion-designer aspirations are similarly destroyed through codependency and addiction; his aging and widowed mother Sara (Ellen Burstyn), whose loneliness fosters a delusional, television-aided obsession with public admiration that’s only intensified by diet-pill psychosis; and his friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans), partner in both the heroin business and self-administration.

image

Their interlocking relationship dependencies and the pits of despair they individually spiral down are often rendered visually, with spherical aerial camera movement and shots like the one of Harry and Marion sitting inside a ring of her design sketches and Sara enclosed by a hallucinated conga line, starring a glamorous and adored version of herself. Their dreams of creative success and individual glory offer glimpses of circular eternity, yet only taunt them with surreal suffocation as the drugs put them further out of reach.

image

Marion wears a choker necklace when grudgingly asking a sexually interested acquaintance for money to fund Harry’s heroin distribution plans. Later, having sex with him to earn the cash, the choker has been replaced by his hands encircling her neck.

The four characters’ narratives continue paralleling each other throughout—at times explicitly enough to underscore Aronofsky’s surrealist vision.

image

The airtight ordering of scenes likens Sara’s doctor’s brisk, impersonal rip of the prescription pad to Harry and Tyrone’s Coney Island drug transactions. It suggests Harry and Sara’s hallucinations—hers of food, his of soundlessly running toward Marion on a pier only to fall into a void—begin at the same time, and that sugar, television, caffeine, amphetamines, coke and heroin (especially mixed in a cocktail of personal failure) can all levy similar doses of psychological damage.

Because where does staunch realism factor into the warm comfort that floods out of a tequila shot, the pleasant synaptic Rockettes chorus line in a cup of coffee, or the gratifying shoulder landslide in a smoky college dorm?

image

If we as viewers are complicit in Harry, Sara, Marion and Tyrone’s actions via subjective POVs and vulnerable edits, we are also dizzied and sedated and thrilled and exhausted. Even when approaching levels of fried-egg PSA subtlety, the tightly woven construction of the film forgives these small indulgences for the sake of clear messages.

And beyond that obvious drugs are bad m’kay one are some corollaries. The film’s constant, escalating tension also feeds into conflicts between private vs. public, internal vs. external, dream vs. reality.

image

The first of these conflicts is visualized in one of the film’s opening scenes—a split screen as Harry enters his mother’s house to steal the TV he continually pawns for drug money while she cowers in her room. In one panel, we see her perspective through the keyhole and in the other, her hiding behind the door. Much later, her previously sad but quiet shut-in existence now unraveled by amphetamines, a broken family and a fixation on warped infomercials, Sara rides the subway to claim her right to TV stardom based on some junk-mail promise. Suddenly, we’re seeing this woman, whose slow descent into madness we had sympathetically witnessed, through the eyes of strangers, who laugh at and dismiss her, with her frizzed hair, mad repetitions of “I’m going to be on the TV!” and wild eyes, as the prototypical Crazy Subway Lady.

image

The moment when Marion takes one simple action that irrevocably catapults her into the abyss of miserable addiction elicits a similar response from an outsider. During a terrible fight with Harry, he writes down the number of a heroin-holding guy that’s willing to “share” exclusively with women, for non-monetary prices. With Harry gone and withdrawal imminent, Marion reluctantly calls the creep, who answers her desperate “Hi” with a terrible cackle.

For brief moments, we have to reevaluate our commiseration with these characters, for whom we can effortlessly cry thanks to sweeping moments of excellent cinematography, but at whom we might snicker in the subway or—as becomes Marion’s fate after that phone call—judge from a safe distance for headlining some humiliating sex party.

image

In keeping with the film’s visceral tone, this internal-external dichotomy is also explored on a more micro level. After so many scenes of ingesting and shooting into veins, Marion twice cues the maddening “Lux Aeterna” crescendo by expelling something. First, vomit from her mouth after her first degrading encounter with the man on the phone. Later, her screams, visualized in the underwater bubbles of her bathtub.

The scenes of her carefully applying (darker and darker) makeup show the disconnect she’s trying to achieve (one that the drugs help her facilitate)between a benign beauty routine and the horror to which she’s about to subject herself. Yes, the water silences her rage. But it also threatens to drown her entirely, given just a few more moments of catharsis. 

image

Marion and Harry are constantly on that precipice—shooting up or “pushing off”—fighting to suspend their aching reality at the risk of just one moment too long underwater. 

Down there, the two have lost their grip on each other, washing away the earlier love story captured in giddy embraces on the beach, mutual assurances (“you are my dream”), and the joint purchase of Marion’s fashion outpost. These high points have devolved into oppressive, minimally lit scenes of isolation and shouting matches that end in one specifically heartbreaking exhale of “fuck you.”

image

In one early split-screened scene, the two lie in bed as we voyeuristically watch them touch each other in an aerial wide shot alongside close-ups of the fondled body parts. Employed here to celebrate points of human connection, the split screen later welds together bonds between human and anthropomorphized drug. With no son to eye, even through a keyhole, Sara now faces off against her diet-advised grapefruits, her medley of pills and a fridge that comes to monstrous life. Harry and Marion’s split screens in bed make way for, first, split screens of their mutual shoot-up routines—and then to split screens entirely absent of one another. In one full screen shot at the very end of the film, after Marion has sacrificed her body and creative ambitions to the mercy of drugs, she spoons her rewarded bag of heroin in an aerial re-creation of the couple’s earlier cuddling on that couch.

image

Tyrone shares a split screen with a childhood memory, in one of many moments when dreams stifle, rather than expand, the characters’ psyches. Harry and Sara’s hallucinations both begin with aspirations of love—Harry’s in the form of Marion and Sara’s projected from her TV. The dreams quickly become dangerous, though, morphing into oppositional nightmares, with Harry plunging to a near-death and Sara’s audience ruthlessly taunting her. These visions of the future are just as toxic as Tyrone’s fixation on the past, and, unable to move forward or back, the characters can only get high, chemically extending their synthetically feel-good present. With each desperate elevation the crash only becomes harder, back down to a reality grown vicious with neglect.

Later, while Harry and Tyrone attempt to escape their respective nightmares—and the law—with a drive to Florida, Tyrone cheerfully announces that they’re now 600 miles closer to Miami. When Harry reminds him of the geographical flip-side—600 miles farther from New York—Tyrone glances in his side rearview, face collapsing with overwhelming anguish. Aronofsky largely truncates the reasons for Tyrone’s despondency, but these kinds of scarring transformations and breaks with the past occur over the span of the film for the other characters.

image

Scenes of the characters’ mindful walks—or in Sara’s case, roll on a gurney—down hallways toward horrible fates visually indicate these life-altering moments. As do the close-up expressions on their faces, poignantly executed by the actors.

Ellen Burstyn’s entire performance is particularly incredible. In the cases of Jennifer Connelly and Jared Leto’s astonishing portrayals, their casting is also aesthetically superb.

image

As the dilating pupils in Aronofsky’s getting-high sequences demonstrate, eyes are often the most terrifying, immediately apparent barometer of an addict. I am still haunted by the disturbing lifelessness I’ve witnessed in the eyes of addicts I’ve loved. Connelly and Leto have the suitable light-hued, expressive canvases for that brutal hallmark.

Back on the other side of this codependent-simulating relationship between characters and viewers, our eyes are just as continually assaulted. Along with our ears, consciences, hearts, minds and stomachs.

As all the characters become fully submerged, we go down with them. And gasp with relief at the end credits, though it’s possible we’ve already been under way too long.

image

If you are one of likely dozens (!) of people in the world who can’t get enough of Darren Aronofsky’s nightmare-inducing visualizations of addiction, Danielle Lee recommends you check out his anti-meth PSAs, and then go about jamming safety pins into your eyelids or whatever else it is that gets you going.  

Comments
1 week ago
permalink
theatlantic:

Why The Conversation Should Be Required Viewing at the NSA

Technology—iPhones, Google Glass, tablets, and the like—makes our day-to-day lives easier to quantify than ever. That’s a good thing, in many ways; more information about how people live can help, say, improve healthcare.
But fiction, from George Orwell’s 1984 to this weekend’s box-office hit Captain America: The Winter Soldier, has long warned us about the ways that data collection can also threaten privacy, freedom, and happiness. The most powerful cautionary tale for the Age of Big Data comes from an unlikely place: Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation, which turns 40 today.
Read more.


A great article on a near perfect film.

theatlantic:

Why The Conversation Should Be Required Viewing at the NSA

Technology—iPhones, Google Glass, tablets, and the like—makes our day-to-day lives easier to quantify than ever. That’s a good thing, in many ways; more information about how people live can help, say, improve healthcare.

But fiction, from George Orwell’s 1984 to this weekend’s box-office hit Captain America: The Winter Soldier, has long warned us about the ways that data collection can also threaten privacy, freedom, and happiness. The most powerful cautionary tale for the Age of Big Data comes from an unlikely place: Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation, which turns 40 today.

Read more.

A great article on a near perfect film.

Cite Arrow via theatlantic
Comments
permalink

andrewinfante:

The Disorderly Orderly (Frank Tashlin, 1964)

Punch Drunk Love (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2002)

Cite Arrow via andrewinfante
Comments
2 weeks ago
permalink
What Maisie Knew (2012)

image

THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD.

by Erica Bean

The first time I encountered two parents fighting I was fifteen years old, and they were not my parents. They were the parents of my first boyfriend, and it was a shock to the system to hear such ugly words being hurled across a kitchen island. I was one of the lucky ones whose parents were still happily married, though this happiness did nothing to prepare me for a real world full of arguing adults. Their love never showed me all the ways that married people sometimes do not love—or even like—one other.

As an adult I can understand why my boyfriend didn’t seem disconcerted in any way, but as a teenager, I could only stare in surprise at him as he took me by the hand and walked with me into the backyard to sit by the pool. We sat at the edge of the pool and made circles in the water with our feet.

I pretended not to hear the arguing still going on, but all those angry words smashed into a million pieces inside of me, shattering everything I thought I knew about the way people were supposed to speak to each other. I wondered how my boyfriend survived, how he coped all these years. I remember asking him, has it always been this way? He answered casually, practiced—I don’t know anything different. His words marked a distinct point in our relationship where I felt the gap between what he knew and what I thought I knew about life. From the pool where we sat, I could hear the tone, the inflections, the harshness. The lovely, gracious people I had known for so many years had turned into people I no longer recognized. We rested our backs on the hot cement under the summer sun, our knees hanging over the edge of the pool.

image

This is what I think about when I see Maisie watching her parents yelling at each other. I think of the ripples, and the affects of that loudness, the piercing harshness. I see her recognize the arguing, the angry look on her mother’s face when she is calling her father an asshole, and I see her take herself away—shifting her body to a place away from all the noise—with a look on her face that says all this fighting is normal. She no longer hears it. Instead, Maisie is humming, she is playing tic-tac-toe, or laughing with her nanny, she is letting herself win at her own game, drawn on a pizza box with a blue crayon.

What Maisie Knew has two directors, David Siegal and Scott McGehee, and the cast is exceptional: Julianne Moore as the mother, Alexander Skarsgård as Lincoln, Joanna Vanderham as Margo the nanny, and Steve Coogan as Maisie’s father. But in the end it is Onata Aprile, as Maisie, that we can’t look away from. Hers is a soft voice in a loud room, a smiling child despite a temperamental mother, a tiny and perceptive human being, wholly focused through the camera as she carries the film with her two tiny hands, every moment a graceful reminder of what it means to forgive all of those who let us down.

image

Maisie’s parents do all the things parents shouldn’t do when they are divorcing. They force her to take sides, they ask her about the other parent’s life. Maisie keeps herself occupied as her parents remain preoccupied with their own lives, spending far more time fighting about their daughter than actually spending any time with her. She is watching the secrets form, the way they weave in and out of her life. She is left to wait late, after school, forgotten by her mother and her father. She is a patient, and obedient child, but still a child. She often doesn’t understand what is happening all around her.

Her father marries Margo, and her mother marries Lincoln. The nanny is now her new step-mother, and a bartender her new step-father. The hardest part of watching What Maisie Knew is watching Maisie navigate her way through this new, dismantled world in quiet solitude. And yet, she remains the brightest spot in every scene—she is the shining light, the laughter and joy and color on a summer day. She is too young to feel resentful toward her parents, the way they wander in and out of her days. Maisie is the reason the pieces of her fractured family keep smashing into each other like stained glass, bright and sharp and shattered, but she forgives them for breaking. She loves them in spite of it. Because, despite the terrible ways in which they behave, they are her parents, her biggest sense of permanency. She consistently displays her sense of forgiveness, choosing to love her mother and father despite their mistakes, or their absence. Maisie’s childhood innocence and habitual love creates a bubble in which she finds a way to survive her parents’ divorce. 

image

As an adult I know that life is not always conclusive, that failures usually speak to the heavy burdens we’re forced to carry on our own, and the ways we get stuck when trying to let them go. Sometimes the questions are hard but the answers are easy. People are complex: it’s not as simple as mothers or fathers not wanting their children, even if they have the utmost obligation in their heart to do so. We see Maisie being held and kissed by her mother and told that she is loved while also being left, or forgotten, or playing in her room, watching her mother cry. Everything we know is everything Maisie knows.

In the unfolding of her days Maisie still finds joy despite all the shuffling from parent to parent, from place to place. Even while she listens one morning as her father tells her he is moving to England, her small mouth chewing up her breakfast, there is that unwavering grace, a small resilience smoothing out the edges of her new life without all the things she used to know.

Margo takes Maisie to a beach house. Here, she can be a child. She runs into the sea, the cold water rushing over her bare feet. Her small hands building something, even if only with crumbling, dry grains of sand. She sits on the shore and holds a shell up to her ear, listening to the ocean. She is listening to a world that is finally listening to her back.

Her mother comes for her one evening. “Let’s go Maisie,” she says. But Maisie doesn’t move. “Maisie, come on,” she repeats, impatient, the tour bus parked and waiting. But Maisie wants to stay, she wants to go on the boat the next day like she was promised. She does not want to leave behind hope in exchange for disappointment. Her mother, for once in touch with an awareness outside of herself, understands this with sharp clarity.

image

“Do you know who your mother is?” her voice breaks to ask, kneeling in front of her daughter, scared that she has been replaced by the very people she’s had to rely on to take care of Maisie in her absence. But Maisie, her beautiful and delicate daughter, does not let her mother fall through the cracks.

“You,” Maisie replies softly, placing her hand on her mothers shoulder, in reassurance. In comfort.

On that summer day when I was fifteen, I can see how like Maisie I was—the child in a room full of knowing adults. I knew nothing more than what I’d been told, or what belonged to me from my own limited experiences. The things I thought I knew were changing, but on that day, this is what I knew for sure: that there was arguing inside a beautiful house and that it was summer and I was young and that I knew so very little about people, about how they could lash out in hurt, or how they coped with all the twisted things inside of themselves. All I knew was that I needed to keep moving, to keep breaking the surface of the water at my feet. I knew that I had a lifetime ahead of me to figure it out.

image

Erica Bean is a writer and photographer living in San Francisco, California. She uses the occasional “y’all” and sometimes goes to movie theaters just for the popcorn. You can read more of her work here.

Comments
Powered by Tumblr Designed by:Doinwork