Some Very Pretty Pictures (for you!)

I started off the day intending to do a shot-by-shot analysis of the scene in which my favorite shot of all time takes place, but, alas, I couldn't find the clip on Youtube, and it would be silly to do an article like that without providing a way to see the scene. So, instead, I'm just going to rattle off the five prettiest movies I can think of right now (they'll all be fairly recent, as they need to be somewhat fresh in my mind for me to rattle them off) and extol their virtues a bit. I'll also provide the link for the trailer to each one (I wish I knew how to embed videos. If someone can provide a tutorial, or some helpful advice, I'd be much obliged). I highly, highly recommend that you watch each trailer; while you can't really appreciate a film's style when it's cut up like that, it will give you a good idea of the film, as well as provide the pretty pictures I promised you. It also helps that all five trailers are just excellent examples of trailers at their best.

(These are in no particular order, by the way. If forced to choose, I would give slight advantage to the first two films I mention.)

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Cinematographer: Roger Deakins aka God)
Trailer: www.youtube.com/watch?v=qp2ppYB9fDo
This film really, honestly defies description. Roger Deakins takes his characteristic starkness and emotive lightwork and kicks it into overdrive. He's lensing modern day gods, and it feels like it. Everything is large, grand, and ultimately bleak. His color palettes are unbearably gorgeous. Really, this film is stunning. See it. The film is poetry at its best.

The Thin Red Line (Cinematographer: John Toll)
Trailer: www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCmlOhsIwBk
This film is a little more grounded in reality than the admittedly fantastical musings of the previous entry, but it's no uglier for it. Toll adroitly mixes beautiful nature shots with jaw-dropping tracking shots through battle, liberally spiced with surreal-feeling flashbacks and expressive underwater photography. More poetry here.

The Piano (Cinematographer: Stuart Dryburgh)
Trailer: www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3jUcEOWJO0&feature=related
Unconventional lensing for an unconventional film. Dryburgh does just the opposite of The Thin Red Line in that he excels at casting sharp juxtapositions between the characters and nature. The film feels cold and harsh, as if the landscape is aware that humans shouldn't be living there. He also goes for great unorthodox shots, as well as returning to shots that he knows works (the piano on the beach, framed by waves, for instance).

Brokeback Mountain (Cinematographer: Rodrigo Prieto)
(The shot that I was originally planning this article for is at the end of the trailer: Heath Ledger and fireworks. You'll know it when you see it.)
Trailer: www.youtube.com/watch?v=dc7Odty5MuM
My definition for a pretty film is this: I feel like I can stop the film at any given moment, print the frame I stopped on, and hang it on my wall as a piece of art. More than anything else, Prieto's work feels like art. Painterly, really. Every scene, every shot seems like a composition that I could hang on my wall.

Hero (Cinematographer: Christopher Doyle)
Trailer: www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv3u8-Mq08Q
This film uses color like nothing I've ever seen. Every part has a particular scheme that works beautifully in the context of each location. Notice how all the characters seem to blend and melt into their surroundings, as if the world is swallowing them up, blurring the lines between self and whole. And it's very, very big. It beats everything else on the list in terms of scale.


So, it would seem that my favorite pretty movies all concern nature/human juxtaposition. What do you think? Are these pretty enough for you? What are some other movies that I could have mentioned? If you want me to talk about a film's look or style, I will: I love cinematography. Leave me some suggestions.

Your Slice of Zen for the Day

"They put her in a bag. That's what Katie looked like when I saw her in the morgue. Like they put her in a bag and then they beat the bag with pipes. Janie died in her sleep. All due respect, but there you go. She went to sleep, she never woke up. Peaceful. My daughter was murdered. They put a gun to her. As we stand here, she's on an autopsy slab getting cut open by scalpels and chest spreaders, and you're talking to me about domestic fucking responsibility?"

Clint Eastwood. Good Lord, Clint Eastwood.

I have a problem with Clint Eastwood.
Let me rephrase that. I have a problem with Clint Eastwood as a director this decade.
Perhaps I need to rephrase this one more time. I have a problem with what people are saying about Clint Eastwood as a director this decade.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not here to attempt to take down his older films, many of which are respected classics, like Unforgiven, The Outlaw Josey Wales, Bird, Pale Rider, etc. I have no problem with this incarnation of Clint Eastwood. What gets me is what he's been doing lately. More specifically, what gets me is how much people love what he's been doing lately.
For reasons that I can't fathom, the general consensus on the street ('street' here means the cutthroat, hard-knock world of film criticism) is that Eastwood has 'hit his stride' as a film-maker and is churning out unparalleled quantities of the finest movies Hollywood has to offer.
I'm sorry, but no.
I concede that, this decade he has made one flat-out masterpiece. He has also made one very good film, and three interesting near-misses. He has also made three steaming piles of horse crap. How does that record make people think that this is a film-maker in his prime?
Let's break his filmography down a bit.
The masterpiece: Mystic River. Laser-focused, intense, so well-acted it hurts. I have nothing to fault here: Clint Eastwood's signature sparse directorial style, as well as his simple music contributions (Eastwood composes all his own music, doncha know) work perfectly within the confines of the story. Hell, they don't just work: they enhance and elevate the material. This is one of the best films of 2003, and one of Clint's best films in general, including his earlier works.
The very good film: Letters From Iwo Jima. Brave, unsentimental, unflinching. There are a couple tonal missteps and pacing issues, but on the whole, this film is riveting cinema. Kudos, Clint.
The near-misses: Million Dollar Baby, Flags of Our Fathers, Changeling. Here's where I start to take offense, because much of what's wrong with each of these films comes from Mr. Eastwood.
Million Dollar Baby. Everyone does seem to be throwing their heart and soul into this, and Clint's style is (mostly) fitting. His film avoids most forms of complexity, however. The main character, Maggie, is completely whitewashed, as is Morgan Freeman's omniscient narrator. Only the lead character, played by Eastwood, is allowed to be interesting. A better script and a sharper, less sentimental eye could have improved this film considerably.
Flags of Our Fathers. Just the opposite of Million Dollar Baby. Flags tries too hard to do to much, and ends up not doing much of anything at all. The battle sequences are astoundingly well-done; I'm surprised that Clint had never done a war film before, because he does it very well. The film flounders, however, when it returns to the home front and attempts to establish a larger social context. Funnily enough, his other Iwo Jima film, Letters From Iwo Jima, came out the same year and was a much better film precisely because he didn't try to do as much. How did he make two films about the same thing and get one of them right for all the reasons that he got the other wrong? Odd.
Changeling. Another valiant attempt, with some memorable scenes, but overall, it's a tonal and pacing mess.
Which helps me segue into Clint Eastwood's main problem: he rushes things. Eastwood is renowned for his 'one take' method, aka he only requires one take of most scenes. This is great for expediency, but it tends to hurt the film. With his style, the films he approaches must be the perfect storm of acting and screenplay elements (see Mystic River) to be effective, because the one take method leaves absolutely no room for error. And, frankly, Eastwood is just not genius enough to never make any errors. No one is, really. That's why most directors don't play so fast and loose with quality.
Which leads us to Space Cowboys, Blood Work, and, especially, Gran Torino. Gran Torino feels like a high-school theater piece. Its only "redeeming" element is its rampant racism and acceptable acting turn from Clint Eastwood. I know the bandying-about of racial slurs really endeared this film to some people, but just because a film is a dictionary of things to call your ethnic neighbors doesn't make it a good film. End of story.
So what am I saying? Currently, Eastwood's next effort, Invictus, is about to hit theaters. Early reviews cite, you guessed it, tonal and pacing errors, as well as a generally rushed feel. But what is Clint doing now? He's working on his next film, Hereafter, which will be released, you guessed it, next year.

Clint: take a little more time. You can make great films when you try hard. So please. Try a little more. I know you're getting on in years (he turned 79 in May), and could be feeling pressured to make as many more movies as you can before the end, but really: We would all prefer one more Eastwood masterpiece that takes three years to make than one mediocre Eastwood film a year. Seriously. We're here for you. We can help. Set down the camera, pick up your red pen, and improve your scripts. Then, take some time with your actors. Rehearse a bit. Play around. Go crazy. Then, take some time in the editing room. Do post-production right. And then take a break. Don't start shooting your next film while you're still editing your last. That way lies disaster. We've seen it. It's called Gran Torino.

Are y'all Eastwood fans? Should he take more time? Is he the genius that everyone says he is? Am I just being overly critical? Speak up, dawgs.

Your Slice of Zen for the Day

Sulley: Mike, this isn't Boo's door.
Mike: Boo? What's Boo?
Sulley: That's what I decided to call her. Is there a problem?
Mike: Sulley, you're not supposed to name it. Once you name it, you start getting attached to it. Now put that thing back where it came from, or so help me...
(Mike pauses, realizing that he has the attention of the whole floor)
Mike: Oh. Hey. We're rehearsing a - a scene for the upcoming company play called, uh, "Put That Thing Back Where it Came From or So Help Me." It's a musical.
(singing)
'Put that thing back where it came from or so help me, so help me' and cut. We're still working on it, it's a work in progress, but hey, we need ushers.

Your Slice of Zen for the Day

"Perhaps you're interested in how a man undresses. You know, it's a funny thing about that. Quite a study in psychology. No two men do it alike. You know, I once knew a man who kept his hat on until he was completely undressed. Yeah, now he made a picture. Years later, his secret came out: he wore a toupee. Yeah. You know, I have a method all my own. If you notice, the coat came first, then the tie, then the shirt. Now, according to Hoyle, after that, the pants should be next. There's where I'm different: I go for the shoes next. First the right, then the left. After that, it's every man for himself."

American Beauty and Donnie Darko as companion pieces

The other day, I was speaking to a friend and fellow movie enthusiast. He told me that he thought American Beauty and Donnie Darko were perfect companion pieces, though he wasn't quite sure why. I asked him if he would let me take his idea and run with it, and here are the results.

(note: Big spoiler warning over the whole article. It's impossible to tackle this subject intelligently without writing about the endings.)

American Beauty and Donnie Darko are startlingly similar pieces, both superficially (as concerning location, subject, etc.) and thematically. One key difference, however, sets these films travelling in tangential directions and makes them such fascinating mirror images of each other. That one key element is the possibility of hope.

It's easy to begin to draw parallels between the two films. Both take place in the suburbs; American Beauty in a suburb of Chicago, Donnie Darko in a suburb of Virginia Beach. Both follow stereotypically normal and reasonably well-off families. Because of the similarity of the environments the films portray, they can't help but touch on the thematic bases inherent in any suburbia film: lack of meaningful connection, the shallow wastefulness of a capitalist-motivated culture, etc. Another similarity, however, is that neither film makes suburban disillusionment the main subject (for an example of films wholly concerned with suburban disillusionment, see the lesser achievements of The Chumscrubber and Ordinary People).
No, the driving element of both films is the main character: a man who begins the film in a form of mental death (be it complacency or overmedication), finds a catalyst for change, acts on it, and dies in a physical sense because of his commitment to following through on his actions. Admittedly, the catalyst in American Beauty is a little more realistic than Donnie Darko (strangely, there's less time travel in American Beauty), but less noble. Lester Burnham sees an attractive girl and rearranges his life as a way to attract the girl (though I think we can all agree that the film isn't so much about an older man courting a younger woman as it is about the attempts to regain lost youth and vitality). Donnie Darko, on the other hand, sees a six foot tall talking rabbit that tells him the world is going to end, and sets him on the path to stopping it.
Interesting tangent: Angela Hayes and Frank the Rabbit are quite similar in their characterizations, purpose, and effect on the film. Both pop up intermittently to remind the main character of his quest, and both set the hero on the path to death, but aren't directly responsible for the death itself. Angela only inspires Lester to change his life which leads to his association with Ricky Fitz, which leads to, of course, his murder. Frank broaches the subject of time travel with Donnie, but it's Roberta Sparrow's book that leads him to make the conclusions he does about his role in saving the world. Also, both Angela and Frank are responsible for killing the main character's hopes at new love; admittedly, Angela less literally so. She tells Lester she's a virgin, Frank runs over Donnie's girlfriend. Maybe not the same ballpark of a scenario, but thematically similar.
So, it's ultimately the catalyst for change that kills both Lester and Donnie. Here's where it gets interesting. Here's where the films diverge and become entirely different creatures. As Donnie Darko's Jim Cunningham might say, American Beauty and Donnie Darko are on different sides of the Lifeline: one is fear, and the other is love. Here's what I mean: only one film allows the possibility for hope.
Both Lester and Donnie experience moral, emotional, and/or theological awakenings of some kind. Lester's path is different, however, in that his awakening allows him to see the world with optimistic new eyes, to find beauty in everything around him. Donnie's awakening helps him to see the underlying evil and shallowness of the world around him. Lester's awakening leads him back to happiness and contentment, while Donnie's awakening leads him deeper down the rabbit hole of emotional despair.
Here's the kicker, though: consider how each character dies, and what their death accomplishes. By now the films are complete inverse images. When Lester dies, his death throws everyone else's lives into chaos: his wife, emotionally broken in the closet, his child, looking at her father's body, her plans of running away to New York with her boyfriend dashed, her boyfriend, his chance at a happy escape ruined, Mr. Fitz, adding more things in his life to submerge, hide, and feel guilty over, and so on and so forth. So, the world around him is thrown off its axis, but Lester is content, and the film ends on a tentatively hopeful note. Now consider Donnie Darko. In his death, Donnie restores the order of the world, saving his girlfriend from vehicular homicide, saving his teacher's job, saving Jim Cunningham's reputation, though not his soul, saving his mother from the unspeakable horror of accompanying Sparkle Motion to California, etc. So Donnie saves everyone with his sacrifice, but the movie is one hell of a downer. So, one character throws his universe into chaos for the sake of his own happiness and the film ends optimistically, and one character saves his universe from chaos at the sake of his own life, and the film ends on a depressing note.
What does this say about the two films thematically? Is American Beauty a predominantly selfish film? Does it opine that individual happiness is more important than the good of the collective, and that the chance for Lester to die with dignity, having regained his soul, is more important than the harmony of the lives around him? What is Donnie Darko saying? That the death of one person is still a tragedy, regardless of the good that comes of it? That a world of rights can't change one wrong? Consider both films: both use violence and death as a way to create change. Or, perhaps, violence and death occur because of the attempt to create change. Could the films be suggesting that any change to the world must be paid for in blood? That altering one's circumstances creates an alternate reality in which the sin of change must be atoned for with human sacrifice?
Honestly, I don't have the answers for any of these questions, but I'm going to try to address them anyway. If you've got different opinions, I'd love to hear them.
Yes, American Beauty is inherently selfish. But so is human nature, and creating a film that deals so intelligently and accurately with human nature without portraying selfishness is impossible. Every person, when attempting to break out of their routine, does so with less regard for the people around them than for the eventual consequences that their thrashing about will bring. And yes: Donnie Darko does think that one death is a tragedy, regardless of the good that comes of it. That's one of the underlying themes of the film: that any amount of good can't eradicate the presence of something bad. It can offset it, or alleviate its effect, but it can't get rid of it. And yes: both films regard change as something dangerous. Not negative, mind you, but dangerous. They warn that for every reaction, there is an equal and opposing reaction. Lester and Donnie find themselves on the shit end of their opposing reactions.
Here's where hope comes in, however. Why does American Beauty end on an optimistic note? Hope. Yes, Lester dies. Yes, everyone else's lives get irrevocably screwed up. But during the process, they find moments of beauty. They realize the world for the place it is ('big, beautiful, and ultimately too exhausting to live in'), and are happier for it. Lester's last monologue (so much beauty in the world, he's grateful for every minute of his life, and so forth) balances the tragedy of his death by unearthing ways to see hope and beauty in any circumstance. Indeed, American Beauty hardly realizes something tragic happens at the end of it: it's too distracted by all the beauty in the world.
Donnie Darko lacks this capacity for hope. The theme that I addressed in the last paragraph (no amount of rights can right a wrong) is too strong to be denied, and quickly subdues the idea of an optimistic ending. Donnie Darko sees no beauty in the world: the beauty it finds, however rare and fleeting, comes from legitimate human connection, which it strives to introduce into its characters' lives. It sees death as the end of any possibility for real connection, and thus, for Donnie, beauty and hope are rendered irrelevant. There's nothing poetic or acceptable about his death, even if he saved his loved ones in the process. He's still dead, and he won't be around to see the good things that his actions wrought.

So there it is: hope. One movie has it, the other doesn't. I love these two films as companion pieces because they essentially address the only two ways to approach life: with hope, or without it. You see beauty, or you don't. You're afraid of death, or you aren't. You allow the good in your live to overshadow the bad, or you allow the bad in your life to usurp the power of good. Man is born crying: when he has cried enough, does he begin to see the world, or does he just die? I'll let you answer these questions for yourself.

Alright. Your turn. My philosophical monologue isn't nearly as interesting as a dialogue would be. Pipe up!

(I have to credit Michael Cunningham's Flesh and Blood for the quote about the world being 'big, beautiful, and ultimately too exhausting to live in,' as well as Akira Kurosawa's Ran for telling me that 'man is born crying. When he has cried enough, he dies.')

Your Slice of Zen for the Day

Kyoami: A serpent's egg is white and pure. A bird's egg is speckled and soiled.
Hidetora: This is a castle...Here's a wall.
Kyoami: The bird left the speckled egg for the white.
Hidetora: Strange...
Kyoami: The egg cracks. Out comes a snake.
Hidetora: Empty space above the wall. Why?
Kyoami: The bird is gobbled by the snake.
Hidetora: Where am I? Who am I?
Kyoami: Stupid bird.