Platform

#74 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series counting down the most acclaimed films of the previous decade.

The films of Zhang Ke Jia are like time-lapse images transforming both slowly and rapidly before your eyes. Finally what you're seeing at the end (of a shot or, particularly in this case, of the movie) bears little resemblance to what you saw at the beginning, though the route of this change is not easily re-traceable ("how did we get here?" could be the epitaph to each of Jia's films). This transformation is slow because Jia's camera takes its time. In Platform there are no reverse shots, no close-ups, and almost no cuts during scenes (I can think of at least one exception: the provincial theatrical touring group rushes up to an elevated railway in a desolate landscape; suddenly we are on the tracks ourselves, facing away from the train which is rushing off behind the camera, while we stare into the cast's faces as they grin and wave, exhausted). The transformation is also rapid, however, because so much happens within a fixed time frame or spatial plane: a building dissolves into dust (or takes off like a space rocket) in Still Life, a mini-universe is revealed by the ascension of an elevator in The World (a film less defined by fluid long takes than Platform or Still Life, though they are still a part of the texture), in Platform hearts are broken and futures fixed in a lovers' discussion which ends with one character proclaiming (ever time-conscious) "You're too late" and walking away. If that last transformation seems less dramatic than the previous one, don't be fooled. Within each shot, in itself a miniature movie, Platform fixes its gaze on a moment, albeit one always in flux (as moments always are). But over the movie as a whole, there is a more rapid physical and spiritual transformation than anything in either Still Life or The World. That's because Platform takes as its subject the still-bizarre mutation of China from a totalitarian communist workers' state to a semi-capitalist ultra-modern society in the 1980s. An obsession with transformation and mutation are not only aesthetic strategies in Platform, they are the very meat of the film, its text, context, and subtext. Here, form and content fit together perfectly as hand in glove, which is good, because nothing else in the film is so easily malleable.

The Fall and Redemption of Anakin Skywalker

A story in pictures

This piece is composed entirely of images from the six Star Wars films and is a tribute to the saga's central mythology. For a more critical and analytical piece on the movies, please visit my Notes on the Star Wars Saga, which has also been posted this morning.

Notes on the Star Wars saga

For a purely affectionate visual tribute to the films, please visit The Fall and Redemption of Anakin Skywalker, which will be posted an hour after this essay.

I grew up with Star Wars, like many others in my generation, and went through a period of obsession with the original trilogy, about four years before the prequels were unveiled. Aside from the entertainment value, and aside from the verve and imagination of the films themselves, I was fascinated by both the mythic scale of the storytelling and the devotion to detail that George Lucas displayed. In the latter case, I loved the sense of place and character cultivated by Lucas, so that an entire world seemed to continue offscreen. I also enjoyed tracking down the various backstories in the spin-off media, or else imagining these backstories on my own. As for the mythology, this was the powerful framework within which the films and the spin-offs could doodle: the Star Wars saga ignited my imagination by uniting both large-scale and small-scale storytelling. It was at once larger than life and filled with a sense of the lived-in.

The borrowed and cobbled mythology of the trilogy drew on numerous sources of course, but in referencing Greek tragedy, Roman history, and Eastern theology the saga was not just playing "me too," it was tapping into the rich stream of resonance, using these inspirations to get at the core experiences and ideas to which we eternally respond. For all the lavish special effects and straightforward drama, there remained a sense of the "offscreen" in the Star Wars films, a sense on which they thrived. This existed not just in the Hero's Journey archetypes which could be read into the work, but in terms of the work itself: the fact that the trilogy occurred in a declining era. Its chronology ("Episode IV - VI") unfolded in the aftermath of a golden age, and its action often took us to the hidden nooks and crannies of the galaxy, the ice- or desert-world margins of a vast universe.

A Century of Wonders

This post is a tribute to Allan Fish, who has just concluded his ambitious, erudite, and stimulating countdown of every era in film history (a top 100 for the first 35 years of cinema, a top 25 for the 1930s, a top 50 for the ensuing decades of the 20th century, and another top 100 for the decade just past). The project was launched on the popular website Wonders in the Dark in the autumn of 2008. A poll was attached to the end of each countdown, so that the readers could voice their own opinions. Not that they needed the excuse - if anything defined the excitement around Allan's exercises, it was the fantastic discussion which sprouted from many of his choices, sometimes voyaging far abroad from the starting point, spanning hundreds of comments and dozens of topics. Many of these were among the best conversations I've had on the internet - or anywhere else for that matter.

There were numerous contributors to the buzzing atmosphere, not least of whom was Sam Juliano, the irrepressible administrator of Wonders in the Dark, who drummed up enthusiasm and participation in Allan's countdown with the exuberant discipline of a Falstaffian ringleader. And then, of course, there's Allan himself. A thirtysomething Brit who has seen just about every major film known to man, he also harbors a no-bullshit attitude and a brooding sensibility. Though bruising at times, he was the perfect yin to Sam's yang - and their odd couple routine defined the site's bright but unpretentious tone from the get-go. More important, his virtually peerless immersion in film history provided a wealth of choices for the countdown and he drew on them with gusto. Many times his #1 (not to mention lower-ranked picks) took us by surprise and sent us scurrying to the margins of filmdom to polish off his proclaimed masterpieces.

In several paragraphs, Allan would summon up the world of the movie effortlessly, giving a bit of history and story, but focusing on the film's mood, its connections to other movies (and books and TV shows and plays...), and whatever it is that drew him in the first place. These short, succinct, yet highly evocative pieces were intended to evoke curiosity and excitement, and in this they were assisted by an often bold and original image - a screen capture in almost all cases, snapping a picture in the midst of merry movement, making us want to see more. The remainder of this tribute focuses on these pictures. Rather than lay these images out in the order of his ranking, I'll fuse them into a seamless portrait of movie history, a voyage into the silver screen's past, starting with the most recent and ending with the earliest glimpses of the medium's potential.

Click on the picture and you will be taken to the review in question. (And if you click on the picture topping this post - an arresting, sultry frame from the French miniseries "Mesrine" - you will arrive at a list of all Allan's countdowns in numerical order.) Enjoy…

In the Beginning...

A meme for those who love pictures

But first, a birthday notice.

In three days, it will be two years since I started this blog. In that time, it and I have been through many changes, but the adventure began with a dual review of Be Kind Rewind and the Lumieres' short films on July 16, 2008. No pictures, no sidebar, an all-white page. And of course, no comments - yet. For several weeks, all was silent - then the first commentators arrived on August 1. Why? I had participated in a "meme", answering the question "if you could program a dozen screenings, what would they be?" Since then, memes - both those I participated in, and those I initiated - have resulted in many of my most popular posts. For that reason, and for another, I am now kicking off a new exercise. In a moment I'll lay out the origin, the rules, and my own tags. First though, thanks to all those who made the past couple years eventful and interesting, and for providing encouragement through the twists and turns of my online enterprises. For those new to The Dancing Image, feel free to explore - visit the "Top Posts" tab to see the work I'm most proud of, "The Directory" to delve deeper, or "The Picture Gallery" to explore what it's all about - those fantastic images which dance across screen and consciousness alike.

Which brings us to that "other reason" for the meme, mentioned above. Several months ago, Stephen of the colorful blog Checking on My Sausages, initiated his own picture gallery. He invited readers to submit "a gallery of images ...to stand for so much of what makes Cinema such a rich and exciting medium." I promised to contribute, but in truth I was stymied. How to chose one image, or even several images, which could represent the thrill of cinema - so much of which has to do with movement, fluctuation, and context? Even some of the powerful moments I could think of - the cut to the static cityscape in Momma Roma, Michael's silent scream at the end of Godfather Part III (or closing the door on his wife in Part I) - relied upon juxtaposition or understanding of the story for their full effect. While appreciating the submissions Stephen received, I dragged my own feet and never fulfilled my promise.

Then, recently, it hit me. When does a single image matter most? When a film opens, when we eagerly await the revelation of its world, and then jump right in. The bulk of my post - nine pictures (including the one above) and my reflections on this theme - proceeds from this conclusion, but in truth, there was a more crucial epiphany here than just the importance of beginnings. I realized that having a theme, an inspiration to go hunting, was in itself enough to spur me on; the actual theme being secondary to the encouragement it provided. And that, finally, brings me to the meme. Here are the rules.

1. Pick as many pictures as you want - but make them screen-captures. The idea is that we're paying tribute to what's onscreen, so production stills - however enticing - just won't do. These have to be images from the movies themselves.

2. Pick a theme, any theme. If you want, you can follow my lead and chose "opening moments" but won't it be more interesting if everybody chooses something different? Character reveals, maybe, or moments of death, memorable reaction shots, even conventional establishing shots (Michael Atkinson wrote a great piece on their poetry a while back). Pick away...

3. You MUST link to Stephen's gallery and my post too. Sorry for the red, but it's an important rule, no? Stephen has also invited submissions to include a caption. I've decided to let the images speak for themselves, but you are welcome to follow his lead and enter a short, terse summary of why you picked what you did.

4. Tag five blogs. I'd like to tag some bloggers who are especially fond of (and talented at using) screen-caps. However, anyone reading this can consider themselves tagged too - get to work! My own tags: Jeremy Richey at Moon in the Gutter, shanh at sixmartinis and the seventh art, Glenn Kenny at Some Came Running, Allan Fish at Wonders in the Dark, and Ed Howard at Only the Cinema (he already contributed one image to Stephen's gallery, but let's see if he can do the themed thing).

The rest is up to you.

And now for my own choices...

Fantastic Mr. Fox

#72 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series counting down the most acclaimed films of the previous decade. This review contains spoilers.

Whose name should open this review - Roald Dahl's or Wes Anderson's? Roald Dahl, of course, wrote Fantastic Mr. Fox in 1970. As embodied by Dahl's droll, devilishly nasty (though less than usual) prose and Quentin Blake's trademark sketchy, jagged illustrations, Mr. Fox is a cunning, boastful, and rakish chicken-thief who, trapped in his hole by farmers Boggis, Bunce, and Bean, digs tunnels directly into their territory. As the farmers guard the hole, hoping to starve out their quarry, Mr. Fox pays a visit to Boggis' chicken coop, Bunce's store room, and Bean's cider cellar, assembling a great feast for all the animals who have been rooted out of their forest homes by the vengeful humans, forced underground but provided for by Fox's expert thieving. Dahl tells the story methodically but crisply, employing repetition as children's authors do but imbuing his narrative with a subversive sensibility, humorous character touches, and gruesome details ("[Bean's] earholes were clogged with all kinds of muck and wax and bits of chewing-gum and dead flies and stuff like that"). The story is ornamental - a simple narrative decorated with Dahl's trademark touches. Anderson, on the other hand, is known to fetishize the smallest details - something the film's animation allows him to do in greater detail than ever before. He accumulates ephemera at such a rapid clip, that it becomes the very substance of his work - more importantly, the whiffs and whisps of association clinging to his stylistic flourishes, filmic and pop cultural references, and imaginative set design and color coordination cohere into an overhanging mood of wistful romanticism and melancholy, on which his best films float and his weaker films coast. The character of Mr. Fox and the contours of the story he inhabits will always belong to Dahl. But the movie in question is so saturated with Anderson's vision that it could easily be called "Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox."

Cities of the Imagination

"Dread of what?" Carl Jung wrote in his memoirs. Reflecting upon his youth, and his fellow students' incapacity to "admit unconventional possibilities," Jung continued, "After all, there was nothing preposterous or world-shaking in the idea that there might be events which overstepped the limited categories of space, time, and causality. Animals were known to sense beforehand storms and earthquakes. There were dreams which foresaw the death of certain persons, clocks which stopped at the moment of death, glasses which shattered at the critical moment. All these things had been taken for granted in the world of my childhood. And now I was apparently the only person who had ever heard of them. In all earnestness I asked myself what kind of world I had stumbled into. Plainly the urban world knew nothing about the country world, the real world of mountains, woods, and rivers, of animals and 'God's thoughts' (plants and crystals). I found this explanation comforting. At all events, it bolstered my self-esteem, for I realized that for all its wealth of learning the urban world was mentally rather limited."

But if the city represented cold, hard, narrow realism to rural mystics, a scientific rationalism which was blind to the stream of rich unconsciousness imbuing everything, it could also be invested with a kind of alchemical magick, a dream-projection of civilization taking the same subversive approach to the functional architecture of the metropolis that urban minds took towards the natural wonders of the countryside. The utilitarian skyline could be transformed into an oneiric dreamscape, a mental correspondence to the byzantine mazes of the imagination. This post, using images from Zhang Ke Jia's film The World (reviewed last week) and Michel Gondry's music videos alongside quotations and my own thoughts, will offer a brief reflection upon this perennial theme.

The World

#70 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series counting down the most acclaimed films of the previous decade.

"It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small world after all, it's a small, small, small, small world..."

"The world" of this film’s title is a theme park which combines a lushly wooded landscape with reproductions of international monuments: a towering yet smaller-than-normal Eiffel Tower which looms over the whole park like a panopticon, a small set of the New York skyline which still includes the World Trade Center, a bite-size Leaning Tower of Pisa which perpetually invites tourists to stand twenty feet in front of it with their hand out so that photographic "tricks" can make them appear to be holding it up. (Director Zhang Ke Jia always shoots these particular tourists from the side, so that the absurd artificiality of their gesture is highlighted.) This demi-monde, further dislocated by being placed in Beijing instead of the American setting (say, World Showcase in Disney World, or else any number of miniature golf courses) where we might expect it, is fascinating enough to sustain the film even if there isn’t a plot. Which, at first glance, there isn’t, really. Still, a story of sorts develops over the course of the film, or rather several stories, glimpses into characters' lives which remind us how vast and implacable is the real world outside the bounds of our dreamlike global village.

Boomer Baseball: Field of Dreams & the American 60s

“Ray Kinsella, child of the sixties, builds baseball field and at end of movie meets his dead father.”
-Japanese tagline for Field of Dreams, paraphrased by writer/director Phil Alden Robinson

Beloved for its family drama, revered for its sporty caché (at least among those who can forgive a rightie Shoeless Joe), Field of Dreams is generally less recognized for its cultural-historical importance. It was one of the crucial films signifying a late 80s trend: the ascension of the baby boom generation to Hollywood's height of power, accompanied by a burst of 60s nostalgia which helped (re-)define the era for a generation. Preceded by "thirtysomething" and "The Wonder Years" on TV, big hits like The Big Chill and smaller films like Running on Empty (among others) in the cinema, as well as cultural events like the 20th anniversary of Woodstock and the release of the Beatles catalog on CD, Field of Dreams arrived at a crucial crossroads. In 1989, the Berlin Wall was crashing down and a new world was being born - for many in the West, the first time such a sensation had arisen in two decades. Meanwhile, the baby boomers were all hitting or approaching 40, many heading nuclear families and holding professional jobs they never would have foreseen, or so we were told.

The Reagan era, encapsulating a strong reaction to the 60s counterculture and New Left, was coming to an end, with President Bush half-heartedly promising "a kinder, gentler America." As the Wall crashed, and conservatism tentatively relaxed its hold on the American consciousness, pop culture experienced a renewed burst of creativity. New filmmakers like Spike Lee and Oliver Stone emerged to point a light at the country's darker aspects; TV suddenly grew adventurous and subversive with "Twin Peaks" and "The Simpsons"; postmodernism exploded from an academic subculture into the dominant media approach; meanwhile, a reversion to authenticity in mainstream rock was just around the corner. At the center of all these phenomena (except for the last) were baby boomers, who after plugging away and working their way up had finally emerged as mainstream trendsetters. Not only did they point the way forward; they also looked back at their own history, which was ripe for mythologization and nostalgia after a decade in the "dated" bin. Field of Dreams, with its attempt to synchronize America's National Pastime and the Age of Aquarius, its yearning to fuse youthful dreams, old traditions, and adult responsibilities, may be the quintessential film of this moment.

A Serious Man

#67 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series counting down the most acclaimed films of the previous decade. This review contains spoilers.

In his four-star review of A Serious Man, Roger Ebert writes, “I’m sure you’ve heard the old joke where Job asks the Lord why everything in his life is going wrong. Remember what the Lord replies? If you don’t remember the joke, ask anyone. I can’t prove it but I’m absolutely certain more than half of everyone on Earth has heard some version of that joke.” Well, no, I don’t remember what the Lord replies, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard some version of that joke (is that the joke?). However, Ebert’s withholding the punchline is very much in the spirit of the film he’s reviewing. This is a film that begins with a ghost (is it a ghost?) getting stabbed and ends with a tornado bearing down on a Hebrew school while the tinny sound of Jefferson Airplane reverberates from a transistor radio. In between, a woman kicks her husband out of the house and then makes him pay for her suddenly dead lover’s funeral; a boy tokes up before his Bar Mitzvah and receives a Grace Slick-inspired blessing from his 90-year-old rabbi; an uncle with cysts is charged with gambling and arrested for soliciting sodomy; an escape across the Canadian border is brought to a bloody halt by anti-Semitic hunters (don’t worry, it’s all a dream!); and a Jewish dentist discovers a hidden Hebrew script on the inside teeth of a gentile. Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg) is trapped in the center of this eventually literal cyclone, and throughout the film he wears a dumbly neurotic, perpetually perplexed expression. He doesn’t understand what’s going, yet at times he seems to behave just as irrationally as the incidents befalling him, particularly with all the crap he takes from his shrewish wife. Everyone in the movie seems to be acting according to the dictates of some hidden humor – in both senses of the word; gee, I wish someone would let me in on the joke.

Visit the picture gallery

Check it out here. I've also updated labels, which can now be found in a "cloud" near the bottom of the sidebar. And if you missed it this weekend, here is the update on my blogging status.

Consolidation

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As you can see, The Dancing Image has now incorporated posts from my two other blogs, The Sun's Not Yellow and Lost in the Movies, which have ceased to be active. It's also received a minor makeover. To replace the functions of several blogs I have added tabs to the top of the page: one which highlights my stronger pieces so they don't get lost in the shuffle, plus a full directory of all my writing, the Wonders in the Dark lineup, and my annual "best of the blogosphere" round-ups. There may be more changes down the line, but then again this may be the end of said line, more or less.

Following my break from online work (save the biweekly "21st Century" pieces, constituting my entire output for the past couple months), I intended to work on some long-term, in-depth essays and series I'd placed on the backburner long ago. None came to fruition, partly because of waning enthusiasm, partly because of a busy schedule, and partly because - upon reflection - some of them were never all that promising to begin with. Anyway, a commitment to blogging has really served its purpose by now; it got me through some lean years, gave me a (semi-)creative and intellectual outlet, and engaged me with a lot of great people whose work and commentary I enjoyed.

From now on this blog will serve three purposes, aside from the dubious distinction of storing my past work. One: It will continue to link up writing I do elsewhere. For now this means the "Best of the 21st Century?" series for Wonders in the Dark, as I intend to fulfill my promise of completing that venture. I'm doubtful that it will mean much else. Two: It will continue to provide an outlet for any random musings on film or films, either in review form or (more likely) loose, impressionistic observations. Most likely there will not be any such pieces, but I certainly don't want to rule out the possibility.

Three: There is one planned project I have not entirely abandoned though I am wobbling on a 50/50 axis as to whether or not I'll still attempt it. This is my canonical exercise in which I draw up a personal list of favorite great films and go through them one by one, looking individually at story, film history, formal analysis, first impressions; incorporating a fair amount of research and eventually illustrating my take with video, picture, and short written essays, each set of posts would culminate with a piece diving right into a particular aspect of the movie. All in all, it's a nice idea, but will require a lot of work and I don't know if I want to go there anymore. That I'm even humoring it in the midst of my general disengagement from blogging demonstrates its tenacity.

Because I want this work to stand on its own, I would probably isolate this series on its own blog; however, at the end of dealing with a particular film, I'd link to all the different chapters in a post here. Even if I do begin this project, it is doubtful I will ever finish it, as it could take years and years to complete. Other demands have my ear but, again, it's a nice idea, so we'll see. Till then, thanks for your support and continue with your own good work, "onscreen" and off.