"Get Gordon Cole." With that line, Sunset Boulevard solidifies its place not just as one of those films indirectly referenced by Twin Peaks, but as a direct presence inside the work itself. This is the perfect subject to wrap my "What's in a name?" trilogy with Laura and Vertigo. An FBI director named Gordon Cole is played by Lynch himself for three seasons, and Norma Desmond, like Laura's Waldo Lydecker, lends her name to two characters (at least one of whom I'm not sure I even mention in the podcast, given the density of other connections). Initially just a cheeky, trivial nod in early seasons, season three makes this throwaway line a critical onscreen plot point by using it as a trigger for Cooper to awaken from his "Dougie" state. In the process he nearly ends up like Sunset Boulevard's protagonist Joe Gillis (William Holden), a screenwriter who introduces himself to us when he's already dead - although given Joe's watery resting place he may have a closer link to Laura Palmer. Billy Wilder's 1950 classic, the ultimate Hollywood self-portrait, is in many ways quite far from Twin Peaks' texture and locale...if not so much that of certain other Lynch films. However, its central conceit - silent star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) locked away on her overgrown estate, refusing to believe the world has moved on without her - ripples out into many corners of Twin Peaks both onscreen and off, embracing the older Audrey's domestic entrapment, Cooper's quasi-quixotic self-conception(s), and even David Lynch himself as the auteur lost in his own dream world, frequently forced to pay a price for this immersion.
Showing posts with label film about film. Show all posts
Showing posts with label film about film. Show all posts
Class violence in 4 films: Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, The Irishman, Joker, Parasite (LEFT OF THE MOVIES podcast #2/LOST IN THE MOVIES podcast #10)
The bulk of this episode was originally recorded in January 2020 but in the
wake of Donald Trump's contentious loss, the Black Lives Matters protests and
left-right clashes in the street, the coronavirus pandemic and its unequal
economic fallout, and the electoral defeat of Bernie Sanders' populist
movement in the Democratic primaries, it seemed like a good idea to revisit
these films again in the light of such a world-historic ten months. So I
recorded an extra ten or so minutes extending the previous discussion,
including Trump supporters' image of him (vis a vis Hoffa and the Mafia in The
Irishman), the irony of "white male rage" Joker anticipating the BLM
protests six months later, and especially the way that all of these films
explore individual outbursts rather than collective action. There's still much
to dig into, so I hope some of the listeners will offer feedback that I can
further engage in upcoming episodes.
Subscribe, rate, and review on
Apple Podcasts
LINKS FOR EPISODE 10
Debunking Quentin Tarantino's 'Mockery' of Bruce Lee
by Eugene S. Robinson (OZY)
'Once Upon a Time ... in Hollywood' Review: We Lost It at the Movies
by A.O. Scott (New York Times)
SEVEN AMERICAN GENERATIONS: iGen, millennials, X, boomers, silent,
greatest and lost
by Joel Bocko (Lost in the Movies)
Boomer Reunion: The Big Chill vs Return of the Secaucus Seven
(video)
by Joel Bocko (Lost in the Movies)
New on Patreon
(for $1/month)
Episode 73: Twin Peaks cinema - Belladonna of Sadness (+ Twin Peaks Reflections: Norma, Vivian, Ernie, Red Diamond Motel, Golf course, MT Wentz/The Final Dossier, The Devil's Bride & more)
&
Lost in Twin Peaks #16: S2E8 (Drive With a Dead Girl/"Episode 15")
(for $5/month)
New on my site
(accidentally mentioned in previous episode too)
Post-election status update & explore the directory pages linked on my home page for new, sharp images on mobile
August 2020 Patreon podcasts: LOST IN TWIN PEAKS #19 - Season 2 Episode 11 and LOST IN THE MOVIES #70 - Twin Peaks cinema: Sunset Boulevard (+ new schedule for Journey Through Twin Peaks/other projects, Twin Peaks Reflections: Lodwick, Sternwood, One Eyed Jack's, Partyland, Hank's criminal activities/Part 10 & more)
I originally planned to cover the surreal Robert Altman film 3 Women on my patron podcast this month, but at the last minute I was reminded that August 2020 is the seventieth anniversary of Sunset Boulevard's premiere. So I switched gears and drove into the heart of the midcentury American film industry. The Billy Wilder classic has some surface (and deeper) ties to Twin Peaks as well as other David Lynch films and I enjoyed digging into it for the first time in twelve years. My 2008 review of the film as part of a Hollywood-on-Hollywood series, one of my favorite essays, is also incorporated into the Opening the Archive reading series. I also cover several characters, locations and storylines on both sides of the law, and spend a lot of time laying out my plans for the fall, winter, and spring with an emphasis on how I hope to get back into the rhythm of Journey Through Twin Peaks after a summer of delays. And my Lost in Twin Peaks rewatch dives into the thick of mid-season two, dissecting where the show went right and wrong...
La La Land (The Unseen 2016)
"The Unseen" is a series in which I watch popular films for the first time (reviews contain spoilers). The list, which moves backwards in time, is based on the highest-ranked film I've never seen each year on Letterboxd (as of April 2018). La La Land was #1 for 2016.
The Story: Sebastian (Ryan Gosling) and Mia (Emma Stone) "meet (kinda) cute" three times, on each occasion following a musical performance and laced with bitterness. First, they flip each other off in Los Angeles' seething morning traffic after a spectacular dance number (the drivers all leap atop their cars to sing about making it in the city of dreams). Then, Sebastian is fired as a restaurant pianist for playing a personal composition rather than an innocuous holiday song (Mia, wandering downtown after bad auditions and a towed car, is drawn to the restaurant by his music but brushed off when she tries to compliment him). Finally, the arrogant jazzman is stuck playing keyboard in an eighties cover band at a pool party Mia is attending, where she makes humiliating requests and stares him down mockingly. From this point on, however, music's ability to bring them together will supersede its ability to tear them apart: they tap on a park bench at magic hour, overlooking the purple-hued valleys below; they literally float into the cosmos inside the Griffith Park Observatory; and they fall in love amidst a musical montage as they riding the Angel's Flight funicular railway, cross the Colorado Street Bridge, and gaze at the Watts Tower.
As a modern-day musical, La La Land juggles a grounded if affectionate view of the creative type's struggle to survive the film and music industries with a gleefully romanticized depiction of this lifestyle's charms (in this universe, not only can people spontaneously break into song and dance, but the old backlot style of movie magic is still alive and well, with Hollywood the global phenomenon still rooted in Hollywood the physical location). Sebastian and Mia both consider giving up their dreams for one another, and giving up one another for their dreams. Is it possible to hold onto both? The movie's most memorable sequence unfolds as a coda, when their paths cross after some time apart; drawing particularly from An American in Paris, La La Land crafts a wordless musical fantasy, spooling an alternate timeline that stylizes touchstones of life's passage through motifs like stage performance, home movie, and big-screen rapture. Where the film chooses to demarcate fantasy from reality, within an already fantastical environment, is fascinating to note; La La Land is ultimately less interested (or at least, not much more interested) in being a picaresque travelogue than in depicting the tricky battle between ambitious dreams and pragmatic compromises.
The Context:
Living the Art Life
A visual tribute to David Lynch: The Art Life
Yesterday I reviewed this documentary film - today I offer its images on their own terms.
David Lynch: The Art Life
In the recent documentary The Art Life, Lynch describes a late sixties visit to a morgue while he was an art student; a friend who worked there let him in at night and the guilelessly morbid (or perhaps just curious) young man wandered the room, fascinated by the bodies on display - lifeless yet only just recently full of life. As a painter, he was surely drawn to their strange form, their texture, as organic objects that carried natural energy and manifested it in unusual ways. Yet as a budding storyteller (possibly unbeknownst even to himself at this time) he was drawn to something else too. "The thing that gets you," he muses after a moment of reflective silence, "is that you wonder the story of each one. You wonder the story. Who they were, what they did, how they got there just makes you think and...it makes you think of stories."
Patreon update #11: David Lynch's Cinema - Connecting Eraserhead & Inland Empire, bonus: Blue Velvet (+ Diane Evans in Twin Peaks, Everything Sucks!, Frontline on Iran & Saudi Arabia, The Wind in the Willows & more)
Afternoon update: I have added an important announcement about a change in the Films in Focus second/third tier rewards.
With over an hour of content devoted purely to the work of David Lynch (out of a nearly two-hour episode - so much for last week's high-water mark!), I am taking a look at what his first and last films share...and how they differ. Eraserhead and Inland Empire are among the already subversive auteur's most radical works, yet they're radical in divergent and revealing ways. By parsing ten connections between the two films, both can be perceived in a sharper light (the "ten connections" section is preceded by slightly shorter-than-usual coverage of each film individually). And as a bonus, I'm also reviewing what many still consider the Lynch masterpiece, Blue Velvet.
The Favorites - Mulholland Drive (#20)
The Favorites is a series briefly exploring films I love, to find out what makes them - and me - tick. Mulholland Drive (2001/USA/dir. David Lynch) appeared at #20 on my original list.
What it is • So many elements reel us into the first few minutes of Mulholland Drive. A strange, colorful jitterbug swims into view, pop Americana and surreal avant-garde colliding as figures cascade inside one another and repeat across the screen. Then a point of view shot, with heavy breathing on the soundtrack, descends onto a pillow and disappears into darkness. Angelo Badalamenti's instantly evocative score emerges, its synthesized majesty provoking mixed responses so suited to a film about the magic and deception of the film industry: glamor, tragedy, artificiality, deep emotion. The drama begins with a likely murder attempt thwarted by a violent car crash. We meet the potential victim (Laura Elena Harring) whose amnesiac confusion reflects our own: who is she, how did she get here, what does it all mean?? Mulholland Drive is a gripping, carefully-told narrative for all its experimentation. That's what frustrates so many viewers while engrossing others - we are primed to expect answers but we aren't ready for the way they are presented. This desire only escalates as the main plot begins: bright-eyed ingenue Betty (Naomi Watts), an aspiring actress newly arrived in Hollywood, discovers that "Rita" (as the amnesiac names herself) has wandered into her absent aunt's apartment. She vows to unravel the mystery of this beautiful stranger. As the film proceeds, it introduces a separate storyline that seems connected in some subterranean way: a shadowy cabal prevents a film director (Justin Theroux) from executing his desired creative decisions in increasingly baroque, ominous fashion. Meanwhile there are cutaways to other events. A hitman (Mark Pellegrino) goes on a darkly comic killing spree, quite likely stemming from that early aborted assassination. There's even a one-off scene with two men in a diner (Patrick Fischler and Michael Cooke), where one of them describes a terrifying nightmare about a "man behind this place...he's the one doing all these things." The scene ends in one of the most viscerally terrifying moments in cinema history. As we travel between characters and locations, we are given a grand, romantic tour of Los Angeles: the shiny airports, the rundown bungalows, the hidden nightclubs charged with occult energy, auditions in small corner offices and bustling soundstages alike, meetings in cold corporate office buildings and abandoned cowboy ranches with blinking overhead lamps. The spirit of this journey is summoned in a single montage as a series of sinister men, most of whose faces we can't see, call one another - a story of the city's highs and lows expressed in telephones, suggesting that all these levels of reality are interconnected. Where are all these threads taking us? Seemingly patterned along the lines of Grand Canyon or any given Robert Altman film (perhaps Short Cuts if we want to stick with the L.A. theme), Mulholland Drive owes its multiple strands to another source - it began life as a TV pilot for ABC. Like many viewers, I didn't know this when I watched, and the setup seemed perfectly natural. Then the blue box opens...and everything changes.
Why I like it •
The Favorites - Singin' in the Rain (#31)
The Favorites is a series briefly exploring films I love, to find out what makes them - and me - tick. Singin' in the Rain (1952/USA/dir. Stanley Donen & Gene Kelly) appeared at #31 on my original list.
What it is • First off, it's a joyous parade of classic song-and-dance numbers (from the opening umbrella-and-rainslicker trio to the more immortal fedora-and-topcoat solo, from the cheerfully inventive non sequitur "Calendar Girl" to perhaps the best sequence in the whole film, Donald O'Conner's "Make 'Em Laugh"). But we shouldn't let that distract us from one of the best-scripted musical stories of all time; the plot of the film is no mere clothesline revue, nor a series of preparatory notes and steps to position us for the real narrative heavy-lifting of the showpiece songs. Instead, the film could be stripped of all its musical numbers and you'd still be left with one of Hollywood's most memorable romantic comedies, not to mention one of its most charming films about films. Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) and Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) are the most popular stars of the silent cinema - emphasis on "silent," since it turns out Lamont's voice could never withstand public scrutiny. The preview of their first talkie, The Dueling Cavalier, is one of the funniest parodies I've ever seen (worthy of being its own standalone short), especially once the dialogue falls out of sync and lapses into slow motion. Meanwhile, Lockwood is falling in love with Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds), a dancer willing to prick his pomposity when he's riding high and lift his spirits when he's fallen low. Together, he, Miss Selden, and life-of-the-party songman Cosmo Brown (O'Conner) concoct a brilliant plan to save Lockwood's doomed production (and career). Their joyous feat of creativity, and his romantic chemistry with co-creator Selden, launches Lockwood out into the street where he croons the title number - one of the most blissful moments in movie history.
Why I like it •
The Favorites - The Man With a Movie Camera (#35)
The Favorites is a series briefly exploring films I love, to find out what makes them - and me - tick. The Man With the Movie Camera (1929/USSR/dir. Dizga Vertov) appeared at #35 on my original list.
What it is • Experimental filmmakers of the twenties had a penchant for "city-poems," documentaries that recorded the daily life of a city, either in short form or, in the case of Berlin: Symphony of a Great City, over the course of an entire feature. The Man With a Movie Camera follows this course with explosive results although - appropriately enough - it "cheats" a bit, using four cities (Kharkiv, Kiev, Moscow, and Odessa) despite implying that we are gazing at a single metropolis. This is in keeping with the spirit of Movie Camera, a defiantly anti-fiction film which is nonetheless lively with creativity. There are a few staged shots, but for the most part this creativity is expressed through manipulation of the image, an anti-"verite" vision of documentary cinema. This ferociously fast visual cascade was radical during the slower-paced silent era and remains startling today. Superimpositions, backwards-motion, kaleidoscopic montages, and buoyant dollies give the movie a sense of endless motion. "Without the Use of Intertitles...Without the Help of a Scenario...Without the Help of Theatre!" the first (and last) title card declares. Vertov, in his early thirties at the time, had already spent years experimenting with revolutionary newsreels and avant-garde shorts, overlapping the two categories and pushing the medium to (and past) its limits. This film was the culmination. If it seemed Vertov was kicking open a door, that door quickly closed: within a decade, severe Socialist Realism was the mandatory state style. Future generations, far afield, would have to pick up where the fiery young turk had left off and today The Man with a Movie Camera seems more relevant than ever. When it unexpectedly cracked the prestigious Sight & Sound top ten for the first time in 2012, David Thomson noted: "Dziga Vertov’s 1929 film is the single work in the new top ten that seems to understand that nervy mixture of interruption and unexpected association" of the online era.
Why I like it •
Filmmaker documentary marathon, 11/9
On November 9 I held a viewing marathon in which I watched documentaries about filmmakers. Here they are, with a screen-captured image and personal epigram. Visit my #WatchlistScreenCaps archive for more arresting images.
Sullivan's Travels
This review was an inadvertent entry in the 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die Blog Club, and was reviewed by "Squish" for the site which started this club.
There's an intriguing irony to the story with which Sullivan's Travels delivers its anti-message message. First, that story: Sullivan's Travels follows John L. Sullivan (no, not that one - this one's a director played by Joel McCrea), who wants to shoot O Brother, Where Art Thou (no not that o- never mind), a serious drama focused on war, fascism, and the Great Depression. He wants to capture the times, speak to the masses, deliver a message - but yes, he placates the worried moguls who try to deter him, "with a little sex."
Movies I watched in 2012
Capsule reviews of 15 films viewed since January 2012
(This post originally went up on Monday morning, but was quickly bumped. I fear it's been overlooked since, so I'm re-posting it now; I'd really like to hear back from readers on what they thought of these particular films; also I'd like to highlight "Who's Killing Cinema - and Who Cares", my response to the fascinating David Denby article; it went up middle of Saturday night because I couldn't wait, but deserves a bump now too...)
(This post originally went up on Monday morning, but was quickly bumped. I fear it's been overlooked since, so I'm re-posting it now; I'd really like to hear back from readers on what they thought of these particular films; also I'd like to highlight "Who's Killing Cinema - and Who Cares", my response to the fascinating David Denby article; it went up middle of Saturday night because I couldn't wait, but deserves a bump now too...)
Histoire(s) du Cinema • The Long Day Closes • Madchen in Uniform • Me and My Gal • Melancholia • North Shore • Road to Morocco • Savages • Shoah • The Story of Film • Super 8 • Tangled • Tanner '88 • Ways of Seeing • The Wind in the Willows
This is Not a Film & Venom and Eternity
A few months ago, I saw This is Not a Film for the first time. I had just arrived in Los Angeles and it seemed somehow appropriate to view Jafar Panahi's documentary about his own house arrest (and his desire to make a film despite the Iranian regime's ban on that activity for him, following his support of a protest movement) on the outskirts of Hollywood. After all, This is Not a Film (smuggled into the 2011 Cannes Film Festival in a cake) represents a challenge and a question, or several questions, to conventional assumptions about cinema. Is the film(?)'s title true? Is it a film - or to raise the stakes even higher, a movie? What is a movie? Is it simply pointing a camera - film, video, whatever - and shooting something?
That question seems a perfect set-up for an authoritative "no" followed by a discourse on how the simple act of photography-in-motion is not sufficient, and filmmakers need one or more of the following to create a real movie: actors, a story, multiple shots, editing, creative use of the frame, etc etc. Even Jafar Panahi himself seems to hold to this theory at times, bemoaning that his discussion of what he would shoot, if he could, can't hold a candle to the actual result itself. "If the script was the movie," he sighs, "then I wouldn't need to shoot the movie." But, in fact, my answer to the question is "yes" - whether the end result is a sloppy home movie, an experimental art film, a big-budget blockbuster, or test footage for technical purposes the end result is, in an essential sense, a movie.
Avant-Garde: WHAT'S IN A NAME?
An Open Letter to Toontown
November 20, 2011
Toontown City Council, c/o Cloverfield Development Co.
Acme Avenue & Avery Alley
Toontown, CA 90@#!
Dear Toons,
Well, gang, I just watched Who Framed Roger Rabbit again, this time for an online series called "Fixing a Hole." (You remember holes, those convenient black discs you carry around in your pockets, portable escape hatches when you're in a pickle. Incidentally, how much those go for nowadays?). Anyway, the movie was a delight as always; though the climax is a bit drawn-out, the appearance of a one-dimensional Judge Doom, crushed and cackling like some maniacal cross between Johnny Paper and Johnny Rotten, is well worth the wait.
I dug that, and I laughed along with Roger, cringed for Baby Herman (somebody tell that middle-aged infant about Viagra, or better yet, don't), and marveled at Bob Hoskins' ability to play it straight even as he was acting against thin ai- er, I mean, against real, live Toons who must have been rather intimidating “in the flesh.” And Jessica Rabbit. Oh Jessica Rabbit. With her in their extended family, it’s no wonder the fluffy-tailed little mammals are so eager to breed.
In Praise of Love (Best of the 21st Century?)
#95 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series in which I view, for the first time, some of the most critically acclaimed films of the previous decade.
Let me take a moment to clear up some misunderstandings about the “Best of the 21st Century?” title. The question mark is there for a reason; this is not my canon for the decade, but rather the collective critical canon as compiled by the website They Shoot Pictures Don’t They?. A talented critic named Kevin B. Lee started an exercise years ago in which he moved through the website’s all-time canon, watching and discussing the films he had not yet seen. His imaginative approach is to create video commentaries for each film – while my own work here is nowhere near as ambitious, I’m taking a similar approach, writing about each film on the 21st Century list that I haven’t seen. Key point: that I haven’t seen, so I have no way of knowing, going into a viewing right before a review, if I’ll like the movie in question. I’ve seen a few responses in the past saying something to the effect of “Can’t wait to see your other favorites” or “Do you really think this is one of the best of the whole decade?” Hopefully this introduction clarifies my approach.
I bring this up because otherwise some of you might be confused by what follows. So far in this series, I’ve been generally positive about the films discussed even if dissenting from the acclaim in some regards (which was already too much for some). This time I have to dissent from the apparent consensus altogether; by and large, I didn’t care for In Praise of Love, so for me that response to the question mark of my series title would have to be a “No.” It’s ironic that this film would be the one to warrant that response, since Jean-Luc Godard is one of my favorite directors of all time. Yet even in his prime, I think he could be hit-and-miss, often within the same film. We take the lows of Godard because the highs are so exhilarating; unfortunately in Praise, the latter are scarce and the former all too abundant. Though some have seen it in exact opposite fashion, I find the movie gets much better as it goes along, leading finally to a rapturous conclusion, but it’s too little too late to save the movie as a whole. The meta-questions on Godard’s old work vs. his new are most creatively addressed by Bob Clark in his “the-best-way-to-criticize-a-film-is-to-make-another-film a-video-game” response to Film Socialisme last week. As for In Praise of Love, I come not to praise but to bury. So proceed below the fold…
Hooray for (Hating) Hollywood
This directory was added in 2010, although the "Hooray for (Hating) Hollywood" series was completed in 2008. Its purpose is to organize links to this whole series into one convenient location. Now, whenever you click the label "microseries" any of my short-term series directory posts will pop up, one post per series from which you can go on to explore the various entries. Enjoy.
"Hooray for (Hating) Hollywood is a series revisiting those classics of the early 1950s which turned a withering gaze on the American film industry. Whether due to the blacklist, the decline of Hollywood's Golden Age, or America's more generalized postwar anxiety, Hollywood's screenwriters and directors were suddenly driven to lift the curtain from the dream factory and take a closer look at what went on behind the silver screen. Be warned: these reviews will contain spoilers."
The series began in August 2008 and ran through October 2008. There are six posts total, and they represent a journey from gentle spoofing to merciless black satire, so while they can be read in any fashion, there is a certain sense to be had in following them in the order they appear here:
For the Love of Movies interview
When critic/filmmaker Gerald Peary set out to document the history of movie criticism, his subject's story had a beginning. Now it seems that the story may have an ending too, and not a happy one. Or is it merely a rebirth? Nearly a decade after he initiated his project, For the Love of Movies: The Story of Film Criticism is completed and showing around the country (the next screening will be Thursday evening at the Music Hall in Portsmouth, NH). Print criticism is rapidly disappearing (since the release of the film, which already featured dire warnings of a crisis in criticism, the number of fired critics has grown enormously). Meanwhile, the rising presence of the Internet seems to be shifting the definition of criticism - but towards what exactly? Last week, I spoke to Peary about the past and the future of criticism, and also about his own work, both as critic and creator. Most of the discussion is contained here, with some slight edits for clarity and space. My words are in bold, Peary's in regular. Clarifications are offered in italics throughout.[For background on the film itself, you can read my review of For the Love of Movies, published back in September.]
For the Love of Movies
Andreas Winkelman … is repairing the roof of the cottage in which he lives as a literate hermit. At one point, he stares off at the sun that hangs low and dim—with its edges made ragged by a telephoto lens—in the Scandinavian sky. Suddenly the sun disappears into the gray-blue haze, but it’s as if Andreas had willed it invisible, much as he has tried to will himself invisible without taking the ultimate step. With this lovely image, Ingmar Bergman begins The Passion of Anna…”A little more than halfway through For the Love of Movies, Gerald Peary’s enthusiastic and authoritative documentary about the history of film criticism, the above passage is quoted. While the narrator reads Canby’s words aloud (and they are as “lovely” as the film he’s describing), we are treated to Bergman’s images and even more importantly, the evocative, delicate soundtrack – Andreas’ hammer on the rooftop, the sheep-bells tinkling – which the critic does not describe. Prose – at once intelligent and impressionistic – is fused with solid yet elusive image and simple yet vaguely abstract sound; criticism meets art and the two shake hands in the light of Bergman’s, and Canby’s, disappeared disc. All in all, it’s a stirring tribute to the movies and to those who love them, both being the subjects of this film.
Vincent Canby, The New York Times, May 29, 1970
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