Random Musing: Second Response to John Nolte

I probably should not even bother, but I since I feel implicated, I suppose I should respond. To this morning's random musing, BIG HOLLYWOOD Editor-in-Chief John Nolte has offered these "gems":

Hey @bengrimwood, what else is on your NEW PRODUCTION CODE? What else aren't movies allowed to do? Do offenders go on a BLACKLIST?

@rejectnation & @Bengrimwood have a NEW HOLLYWOOD PRODUCTION CODE for us. What movies can & can't do. Its not fascism its sensitivity!

Remember folks, when @bengrimwood & @rejectnation tell u what u can't say, it's not fascism when it's FOR THE CHILDREN. #OrwellSmiles

I feel grossly misrepresented, especially because I am not at all recommending some "Production Code." (I doubt @rejectnation, also known as FILM SCHOOL REJECTS, recommends the same.) Nolte seems like an educated man, so he should be aware that, for decades, "homosexuals" could not be portrayed at all on film due to Hollywood's self-censorship system, the Hays Code (adopted in 1930, abandoned in 1968). Occasionally, films of the time period — especially those of Alfred Hitchcock, including "Rebecca" (1940) and "Rope" (1948) — toyed with these regulations and tenuously bent the symbolic order to the point of breaking before returning hastily to a normative (i.e. "moral") conclusion. When the Hays Code was greatly enervated by the late 1950s, the first gay character debuted on film: the character Sebastian (whose face one never sees) in the film "Suddenly, Last Summer" (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1959). Gay people enjoyed their first representation on film... and they never saw him. Just like in real life, gay people were still marginalized — finally "inside," but nonetheless "outside" the film frame. It has taken years for gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and queer characters not to be popularly represented as victims, monsters, killers, deviants, minstrels, "screaming queens," and/or menaces to society. In 2010, "The Kids Are All Right" was released to much acclaim for its kind portrayal of contemporary lesbian motherhood. A recent survey found that 0% — yes, zero out of one-hundred — of children were "unhappy" in a home with gay or lesbian parents. Seems telling enough to me.

I say all of this to provide some historical evidence for why — let us make no mistake — I am opposed to the practice of censorship in Hollywood film. My representations as a white gay man have much at stake. I fully support the (we will call it) "cinematic liberty" of filmmakers to cull what they want from life itself — no matter how bold or offensive — and to represent that in the film medium (Derek Cianfrance's "Blue Valentine" comes to mind). I recommend that filmmakers represent whatever they would like and not worry about another person telling them what they cannot do. You will notice that the single thing that Landon Palmer and I rebuke is one "gay = stupid" joke. One instance does not widespread "censorship" make. "Gay = stupid" has heretofore been dominant, mainstream, and condoned, whereas, in some circles, gay people themselves are still not. All Palmer was doing in the first place was commenting on how fascinating it was that now, in 2010, people are suddenly talking about how "gay = stupid" is no longer okay. What I, as a maligned citizen, propose is that filmmakers simply be more considerate to people of identities that are still crushed in the wheels of society.

I should mention that I will not stop watching films by Ron Howard or Vince Vaughn. They have the right to imply "gay = stupid," even if it offends me. For that matter, I shudder at the idea of composing any "blacklist" because Sen. Joseph McCarthy's red "witchhunt" of the late 1940s/early 1950s destroyed the lives of some of Hollywood's best and brightest actors, producers, directors, screenwriters, etc., even causing the early death (by heart attack) of actor John Garfield (may he rest in peace). If anyone is/was a "fascist," it is/was McCarthy.

If I find anything else offensive, it is that straight John Nolte sits in his cozy arm chair in his white bourgeois lifestyle, comfortably typing up vitriol on his classy home computer. What does he know about gay people or the enormous pressure under which we live? I am certainly one of the more radical members of our community. My scholarly research interests comprise LGBTQ film and media studies, queer theory and film, non-normative sexual practices in the cinema, pleasure, desire, and film spectatorship (especially "cinesexuality"), and LGBTQ discourse. Does that sound like a "fascist" to you, especially since, during World War II, the prototypical fascist, Hitler, sent homosexuals like me to death camps with the Jews and other "undesirables"? Do I sound interested in censorship especially if I enjoy researching "non-normative sexual practices in the cinema"? If John Nolte needs anything "straight," it is his facts.

I am not a "neo-fascist."
I do not support a new Hollywood "production code."
I do not support a new Hollywood "blacklist."

Their historical counterparts have already done too much damage to our world, and I refuse to be complicit in that just because I continue to defend Palmer's right to say that (and the general use of) "gay = stupid" in Hollywood film is indeed no longer okay.

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Random Musing: Response to John Nolte, in Defense of Landon Palmer

One of the most culturally reflective (and divisive) cinematic conversations of 2010 surrounded a film that won’t be released until 2011. While the nation pondered its dense history of homophobic bullying after a string of gay youth suicides starting popping up on the front pages, the trailer for the Ron Howard “comedy” The Dilemma was released with a “gay = stupid” joke as its lead. What would otherwise pass by as an unexamined passive slam against an already-maligned group became no longer acceptable.

The line was unintelligibly defended by Howard, Vince Vaughn, and numerous web commentators who think that a joke too lazy and immature for anybody over 13 to find funny is the same thing as South Park-style take-no-prisoners satire. It’s lazy comedy, and the reaction to it is further evidence that we as a culture have shifted from our Eddie Murphy Delirious days: homophobes, not homosexuals, are now the subject of derisive humor. As The Kids Are All Right and Modern Family have shown, you can have great comedy about homosexuals without making fun of homosexuality.

I have culled this quote from my colleague Landon Palmer's most recent submission to FILM SCHOOL REJECTS, called "Year in Review: Top 10 Topics, Trends, and Events of 2010 That Have Nothing to Do With the 3D Debate." The debate over homophobic language in film comprises one of Palmer's "10 Topics." The following should be taken as axiomatic: The use of "gay" as "stupid" is ideological homophobia, whether the speaker intends to be explicitly homophobic or not. Palmer reflects astutely (as a third-person cultural observer) on how fascinating it is that our society — which is quite conservative, overall — actually talked about one use of "gay" as "stupid" in a movie trailer. If my own upbringing in rural middle Tennessee indicates anything, many people continue to conflate "gay" with "stupid" casually and inconsiderately (members of my own family did so as recently as this past Christmas holiday). Palmer is right that director Ron Howard and actor Vince Vaughn unintelligibly defended the use of "gay" as "stupid" in "The Dilemma." I definitely heard no persuasive argument aside from the middling "Well, that's just how a homophobe speaks, and the film tries faithfully to present that." I suppose I can accept that, and I suppose that this is also the conclusion to which Palmer comes. However, his simple rejoinder is that "comedy" does not have to pick on anyone to be funny and that films should practice more empathy in representing people of various identities.

In response, John Nolte, Editor-in-Chief of the blog BIG HOLLYWOOD, has mocked Palmer's reflection as "just neo-fascism and outright anti-intellectual nonsense." "Neo-fascism"? Is he misusing "fascism" as many contemporary conservatives do, conflating it with "communism" and any abominable anti-Western, non-capitalist, and non-democratic political system one can muster? "Fascism" is any right-wing nationalist ideology or movement with an authoritarian and hierarchical structure that is fundamentally opposed to democracy and liberalism. I strongly disagree that Palmer is "fundamentally opposed to democracy and liberalism." In fact, I would say that Palmer attempts to enrich democracy by commenting on modern discourses around homophobic rhetoric and by suggesting that we be more considerate to the "already-maligned" group of LGBTQ (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer) people. Is that so wrong? By characterizing Palmer as "neo-fascist," Nolte grossly misinterprets Palmer's empathy toward LGBTQ people as "authoritarian" and bigoted when it is quite to the contrary. One should be more careful with his word use when he sprays God-like ideological key words like urine all over another's work.

Palmer, "anti-intellectual"? Quite the opposite. Palmer is one of the smartest people I know, and his cultural commentary is certainly not "nonsense." If we take his work from a rhetorical perspective, all of the sentences of the two paragraphs I quoted flow coherently. No syntactical errors exist, and he misuses no words. If one cannot read through Palmer's jargon-free (though reference-laden) prose, then one should ask for reading assistance instead of letting fly his unhelpful, vitriolic venom.

This may be unnecessary to point out — though I believe it to be significant — but Palmer does not defend homosexuals because he has a strong political investment as a gay man who has prevailing implications in his own representations. Instead, Palmer is straight and has taken a stand with gay people — regardless of the charges made against him — which ought to be admired. Palmer empathizes with the gay community as human beings. If anyone does not stand with the gay community, it is Nolte. He claims that "this whole bullying meme" provides the urgency of false charity from groups such as FILM SCHOOL REJECTS, who advocate homosexuals as the subject — and not as the object — of comedy. "This whole bullying meme" is serious business. Is he to say that Ke$ha's, Katy Perry's, and P!nk's recent hit singles — "We R Who We R," "Firework," and "Raise Your Glass," respectively — also constitute fascism from the top down? Since all have hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100, then it is obviously good oppression for them — and, obviously, the majority of unique individuals in America (who sent it to #1 through radio requests, purchases on iTunes, etc.) enjoy it.

Nolte reflects dismissively: "What attracts bullies is and always will be one thing: weakness. And if you want to prove you’re weak, a good way to start is with the whine of, don’t make fun of me." This statement angers me greatly. "The Dilemma" is probably the couple-hundredth Hollywood film to make fun of gay people (Vito Russo faithfully tallies up most of the pre-1987 ones in his seminal "Celluloid Closet"). It starts using "fag" rhetoric, and I, as a gay man who has endured my own share of such rhetoric, am supposed to suck it up and take it "like a man!?" That is a really unfair statement. Bullying transpires because of the play of ideological forces that teaches children from a young age that some people are better than others. By telling gay people to quit whining "Don't make fun of me" infuriates me. The most you could do is to take into account the ideological systems that have produced your own beliefs. I think Nolte's careful word choice — about his "gay friends" — is absurd because his other claims around it provide evidence that they are not really such.

Nolte says this PC (i.e. politically correct) whining should not be wasted on gays, who can stand up for themselves. Correct me if I am wrong, but would the gay suicide rate be so much higher than heterosexuals' if they felt like they could? Gay teens are 2-3 times more likely to commit suicide than their straight counterparts. "This whole bullying meme" is not an excuse; it is a source of urgency and it must be addressed. Bravo to the humans who stand up together to change it for the better.

If one of Nolte's statements offers some truth (and productiveness), it would be: "Sorry, but you can’t inoculate a particular thing or person or group from satire and/or ridicule unless you’re in favor of inoculating everyone under the same premise." I would agree with this notion. Steps have already been taken to alleviate the damage of some representations of black people onscreen. While some black films of the new millennium have attempted honest representations of social hardship ("Hustle & Flow"; "Precious: Based on the Novel 'Push' by Sapphire"), you will notice that Hollywood films no longer present white characters in blackface.... However, his further contention that "The only people I would inoculate from ridicule are those who are unable to fight back" is, ironically, indefensible. Nolte suggests that "inoculating" certain minority groups from ridicule would be unfair to "Christians," "Conservatives," "Southerners," "Caucasians," "Dads," and "Fundamentalists," a ridiculous statement since few of these subject positions (especially "Caucasians" and "Dads") would ever face public scrutiny and/or derision. If I were to be called "cracker," it would roll off me easily; however, if I called someone the "n-word," I would hope to be assailed relentlessly. No place exists anymore for such egregious racial epithets. The person who uses a word such as the "n-word" is, indeed, the "neo-fascist."

I demand that John Nolte reflect to a considerable extent and to revise his opinion out of humility. One cannot erase the past (i.e. "Blazing Saddles," "The Birdcage" — comedies Nolte carefully selects for their hyperbolic portrayals of gays and other minorities), but one can intervene for a better future. If gays are Nolte's "friends," as he (politically correctly) calls them, he should treat them as such instead of telling them to suck it up and instead of telling FILM SCHOOL REJECTS and my colleague Landon Palmer to back off and quit "oppressing" them.

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Random Musing: I Am Cinesexual (and So Can You!) — Inspired by 'Lola Montès'

Forget gaze theory. No wonder everyone's always loved the movies. You're about to find out why!

I have always had quite a penchant for big, gorgeous epic films such as "Gone with the Wind" and "Titanic." In the case of "Gone with the Wind," I have always chalked it up to my love of the rich colors in the mise-en-scène and to the lush arrangement of Max Steiner's score. In the case of "Titanic," I have long admired the grandeur of the ship's design, James Horner's "busy" score, and the sheer power of the sound, especially during the ship's sinking. Recently, I succumbed to Barnes & Noble's biannual 50%-off sale on Criterion Collection DVDs and Blu-rays. I was completely ashamed of my wretched DVD copy of Max Ophül's swan song, "Lola Montès" (1955), and so I decided I required this film on Blu-ray simply because of its radiant color scheme. I was not wrong to make this purchase, as I have come to glean from having screened the film in Blu-ray high-definition. The big move I had to make was to realize that I did not want the film simply because it was colorful and deserved to be presented in high-definition; rather, I enjoy that it is colorful, thereby necessitating high definition to amplify it as much as possible. I may have "cinesexuality" on the brain.

"Cinesexuality" is a term coined by scholar Patricia MacCormack to describe the desire to experience the cinematic event sensually before we make meaning of it. By "cinematic event," she means to imply the spatiotemporally fixed confrontation between spectators and the film screen. Influenced especially by French philosopher Félix Guattari, MacCormack uses his theories on "expression" (i.e. abstraction, pre-meaning) and asemiotics to explain how spectators gain pleasure from the film event regardless of their identities and in excess of the meaning of the images. MacCormack puts it, "Cinema is a nexus of reality/fantasy, offering planes of pleasurable intensity of colour, framing, celerity and sound: what Guattari calls cinema's a-signifying elements" (341). Guattari also cites "linkages, internal movements of visual images, ... rhythms, gestures, speech, etc." as conducive to "cinesexual" desire (342). Since this kind of pleasure derived from cinema does not correlate with pre-existing sexualities such as heterosexuality and homosexuality, MacCormack suggests "cinesexuality" — not a sexuality per se, so much as it provides a working expression to qualify spectators' unique desire for the a-signifying elements. The spectator and screen form a symbiotic bond whereby no distinction exists between the two during the presentation of the cinematic event, thereby facilitating the cinesexual expression.

When I say that you can be "cinesexual," too — well, you already are. MacCormack proposes that one must be a "cinemasochist" — one who enjoys pleasure from cinema's punishment — to engage "cinesexuality." What she means to say is that the giant film screen that looms over you in the movie theater dominates you and that you must submit. She calls it "passivity to the possibilities of the affects of the image" (352). This way, the explosion of light, color, sound, movement, etc. flows immediately into you, pleasing you before you make meaning of the images themselves. You enjoy the masochism because you "lose yourself" in the abstraction of the image(s) before you. "Submission to a-signification is a step rather than the taking up of a marginal position," she writes (353). Remember: You "forget" your identity in this process. "Cinesexuality is a form of sexuality enjoyed by all bodies," she concludes (353).

Maybe I am not actually digging Max Steiner's score from 'Gone with the Wind' per se. Instead, I am digging some quality of the horn or of the violins — the pitch, the dynamics, or a particular turn-of-phrase. I have always felt as though the leap between the first two notes of the most famous motif from "Tara's Theme" sweeps me. I usually aggrandize his entire score as "sweeping," although I usually refer only to "Tara's Theme." Meanwhile, I revel in the opulent colors of 'Gone with the Wind' purely for the scopic experience. This engagement with the cinema is not of a readily available sexuality. I seek and derive pleasure for my eyes from the potential for luxuriant color.

This reminds me of why I bought "Lola Montès" in the first place.... When I stare at my 47" HDTV, I lose myself in the scheme of sumptuous colors and florid movement in the "Lola Montès" circus show. My subjectivity is unfixed and fluid among the transposition of color, sound, light, and movement. I desire it and take pleasure from it. I am not sure what your opinion is — if you prefer big, showy films, that is — but if something about their bombastic play of color, sound, light, etc. moves you, you ought to consider your own "cinesexuality" and bask in it, like me. ■

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For further reading on "cinesexuality," check out:
MacCormack, Patricia. "A Cinema of Desire: Cinesexuality and Guattari’s A-signifying Cinema." Women: A Cultural Review 16.3 (2005): 340-55. Print.
-or-
MacCormack, Patricia. Cinesexuality. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008. Print.

Note: Citations in this blog posting come from the article and not from the book itself.

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Random Posting: Update/Official Announcement

The announcement first: WE HAVE THE STARS ★★★★ is BACK.

I have missed all of my dear readers the half-a-year I have been gone. Half-a-year is too much time to waste.

2010 has been a year of great upheaval for me — more so than I thought. When I decided to go on hiatus in June, I was burnt out after two weeks of torturous finals in late April/early May and was not feeling much for film criticism. The prospect of a busy semester in graduate school (and it was indeed busy) further substantiated my decision to go on hiatus. I figured it was time to wipe the slate clean — to start afresh, anew. I think I was wrong.

Not in a long time have I felt so disconnected from people. It really is a difficult thing to uproot from a place you feel so comfortable and to re-settle elsewhere. I suppose I thought I could replace the best of Nashville with what I have here in Bloomington, but I have come to realize that things will never be the same. At the beginning of this semester, I compared my courses and my friends to "Vandy, Part Two." Now, it has become its own alien entity. I feel like a stranger in a strange land. I also now realize that it was hasty to cut off everything I was doing to throw myself into my new surroundings. This is why I have returned to this blog. I need an outlet for my thoughts, ideas, and provocations. I, indeed, temporarily lost interest, but I think it was more for the sake of starting my new studies. I felt like WE HAVE THE STARS ★★★★ was a younger Ben, more (appropriately) starry-eyed and determined to succeed in film studies after college. I now realize it can still be that way.

I have at least two people to thank for this turn-of-events, Misters Landon Palmer and Matthew F. Moore. Landon Palmer is a fellow graduate student at Indiana University and a contributor to FILM SCHOOL REJECTS. I have been completely awed by his capacity to keep up with graduate studies and to contribute regularly to FILM SCHOOL REJECTS this semester. Even with his new responsibilities, he proves that you do not have to let go of something you enjoy, despite the graduate work load. Maintaining his online output has been something of an inspiration for me to return to this blog, and for that, I thank him.

Matthew F. Moore is a dear friend of mine, an up-and-coming screenwriter in Brooklyn, New York. When Matt came to visit me in November, he and I had many long talks where I routinely divulged my anxieties about graduate school. At the same time, I was fascinated with his focus — his determination to do things for himself. He spends hours every day in the zone, pumping out his screenplay(s). Graduate school is where I must start getting published, and I had too easily forgotten that by approaching my studies in the day-to-day. Over this winter "break," in fact, I must try to complete a draft of an essay I hope to publish in the spring.

In the last couple of years, I have learned a lot about my writing style and film criticism. Two years ago, an adviser of mine, Rex Roberts of FILM JOURNAL INTERNATIONAL, told me, after reading one of my blogs, that "no one wants to hear you speaking." He was referring to how, in the course of the review, I had disclosed my initial impressions about a film, which I used as a foil to explain how all the impressions were dashed. Five semesters' experience later, I have decided kindly to disagree with his opinion. I think the reviewer's voice is as important to a film review as any other contribution. I do not believe in a "totalized" audience or that any one person may have the same opinion about a film that I do.

Granted, to be considered a worthy film critic, one must eliminate that notion and must subsume their own interests for everyone's interests. If you review a film purely to seek your own pleasure, that would be less "seemly" than operating as a critic shrouded in "objectivity," speaking as an expert for the masses. It would also be hard to get paid, and I think that is why Rex suggested any of this to me in the first place (I do appreciate that). Since I do not seek to be paid for my thoughts, I suppose I can maintain my voice in my reviews.

For that matter, I think subsuming one's voice in a film review is a bourgeois practice aiming toward a white, upper/middle-class audience. I adore "Gone with the Wind," as you all know, for its lush art/set direction, gorgeous cinematography, sweeping Max Steiner score, and the tour-de-force performance of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara. Conversely, I have heard many black people say "I hate 'Gone with the Wind'" or "It's so problematic...." Am I to assume that just because I like it and that the AFI thinks it's the sixth best American film of all-time that it speaks similarly to all film-goers? While I may take pleasure in the film's a-signified (i.e. pre-meaningful) elements (color, framing, sound, etc.) and its resonance with my penchant for the South, black people have more at stake in seeing their representations. Granted, "Gone with the Wind" could be seen as a triumph for the black community because Hattie McDaniel's performance garnered the first Oscar for an African-American. On the other hand, she portrayed an infamous "Mammy" role....

For that matter, "Gone with the Wind" is not the only film for which I have revised my opinion. Remember my diatribe on "Avatar" when this blog went on hiatus? I may have revised my opinion on that, too. (More on that later?)

In the end, all I know is that I love the movies. I may have been too hasty to say my "critic's eye" had dulled because I still know a good film from a bad one. At the same time, I can still enjoy all films for the meaning of their form and content. Nonetheless, I can no longer say that I speak for everyone. I am just one rabid cinéphile, aiming to get happy again through a medium I adore so much that my life centers on it. I hope you will again take this journey with me. A mentor of mine, Irina Makoveeva, once said that "there is no story that the cinema has not already told." I, on the other hand, have much left to tell. ■

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Random Musing: Avatar and the Death of Cinema

“Hey, what is this stuff?”
“What? Oh, it’s a bunch of s*** I’m using for this article I’m writing on the death of cinema.”
- Mike Dytri as Luke and Craig Gilmore as Jon in THE LIVING END (Gregg Araki, 1992)

Author’s note: I owe the inspiration for the subject of this column to Jon’s statement from “The Living End.” Because of that film, I always wondered what “the death of cinema” would look like. I think I now know.

Do not get me wrong: I loved “Avatar” (James Cameron, 2009). I enjoy filmmakers with vivid imaginations, which is probably why I enjoy the films of Tim Burton so much. However, “Avatar” signals a concomitantly dangerous and naïve trend in modern cinema: the return of 3-D.

Watching part of a documentary on the making of “Avatar” on Fox Movie Channel, I felt a little part of my soul die when producer Jon Landau asserted, “3-D is the best way to engage with audiences.” Is it really now, Mr. Landau? In the 115 years of the cinema, 3-D has been shown to be little more than an ephemeral fad used to make films more appealing when box office returns are down. It was used in the 1950s in such films as “House of Wax,” “It Came from Outer Space,” and “The Creature from the Black Lagoon,” when the studios were desperate to reclaim the audiences who were tuning in to television. After enjoying brief popularity, other ways to experience a film sensually were introduced, including Aroma-rama, Smell-O-Vision, and tiny electrical currents rigged to theater seats; needless to say, these extreme trends precipitated the downfall of a heightened film experience. In the 1980s, 3-D made a brief comeback through horror films such as “Jaws 3-D,” “Amityville 3-D,” and “Friday the 13th, Part III.” It was put out of its misery soon afterward, especially because 3-D was unable to be translated to home video, which was booming at the time.

The simple fact of the matter is that the film medium, in its inchoate state and as we know it today, is an art that occupies two dimensions. If the cinema is to be exploited for its specific properties, it should be done with a working knowledge of them. The world over cites ubiquitously the film “Citizen Kane” (Orson Welles, 1941) as the “greatest film of all-time,” and it is usually because they recognize with awe the incredible depth cues developed in that film. As a result, an implied “third dimension” is created because deep space makes objects in the foreground appear bigger and objects in the middle- and backgrounds gradually recess into the background.

Am I being conservative, in that I resist “the next step in the evolution of cinema”? Perhaps I am subconsciously protective of the 1200+ DVDs that I own and hope to not have to replace when the digital age brings about the release of computer-engineered 3-D titles such as “Citizen Kane” (to be released on Blu-Ray next year). I do not know if the re-engineering of older, 2-D films is already in the works or not, but I would not be surprised. Orson Welles already did backflips when “Touch of Evil” (1958) was originally hacked to pieces and distributed to theaters by Universal, so why should he have to roll over in his grave because his masterpiece – the only film of his that a studio never bothered – should be 3-D-ed?

I should note that it is not new home video formats that I resist, as I have crossed over successfully into the world of Blu-Ray. Rather, it is simply the precocious defense on the part of studios that viewers desperately want 3-D films. Frankly, sir – and this is for you especially, Mr. Landau – I do not. 3-D will always remain a novelty. I can engage with 2-D films very well, thank you.

I must confess that, because Cameron intended his viewers to see “Avatar” in 3-D, I have not purchased the 2-D version of the film on Blu-Ray, as of yet. Recently, I learned that the film will be released in 3-D at the end of the year… and only if you purchase one brand of HD 3-D TV. Unfortunately, perhaps this 3-D travesty will not be going away anytime soon…

Is the cinema, as we have always known it, in its final days of life before being replaced permanently by a bombastic new format with an “extra” dimension? Is this the death of “cinema”? Only time (the fourth dimension, coincidentally enough) shall tell…

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Random Musing: Update/Official Announcement

The announcement first: We Have the Stars ★★★★ is going on hiatus.

This may come as a surprise to many of you, my loyal readers, but at this point in time, I think it is only fair to inform you of this weighty decision. I could excuse myself by saying I have been busy (fairly cliché, though not altogether untrue - more on that later), but I would be more genuine in saying that my heart is not completely in this project right now.

To catch you up on the details of my life, I shall indulge you with the major events of the past year. After last summer, I took the GRE (Graduate Record Examination) and began applying to graduate schools, such as U.C.-Berkeley, University of Wisconsin-Madison (Bordwell-Thompson Land!), University of Chicago, Indiana University, and the University of Iowa. I decided after the Spring of 2009 that I wanted to pursue film studies in an academic setting (as opposed to a mundane setting), and so to gain entrance into one of these prestigious universities would set me on the course to scholarly success. In late January, I learned that my #1 school, Indiana, had almost immediately accepted me (or so it felt), so my path was set. All I had to do was graduate from college, which transpired this past May, as I obtained my B.A. from Vanderbilt.

In the meantime, I continued writing for "Out & About Newspaper" in Nashville, a rewarding experience that permitted me to luxuriate in the critical reviewing of LGBTQ films. However, I must confess that the Spring of 2010 awakened me to an existential crisis, one of whose ramifications I have still not felt the full weight. After enjoying films such as "Showgirls" and the John Waters' trash entries "Female Trouble" and "Pink Flamingos," I realized that my critic's eye has dulled. I was surrounded by friends during these film screenings and realized afterward that I was the only one who enjoyed them. What did this say about my own tastes? Granted, I was never a film critic like Pauline Kael - who notoriously lambasted more films than the measly amount she actually enjoyed - but I liked to think that my interests could account for and speak for the taste of film-going America.

As a result, I realized that my own film studies heads in the direction of film analysis rather than criticism. I can still critique a film like anyone else (like when I watched "Who's That Girl" a few weeks ago - woof!), but I find myself preferring a film for the ways it makes meaning rather than for the value of its content. In this way, I probably am ready for graduate studies. I knew that to switch gears from being a film critic for a living to being a career film scholar and professor would entail its consequences, but I did not realize in what ways. (By the way, I should note that I also have recently tendered my resignation from "Out & About," an amicable separation as I go to grad school and pursue different interests. Hence, I will no longer be "Queer Movie Tutor"-ing for them.)

In closing, I want to ensure you, my dear, dear readers, that this is not the end. (Cue the introduction to "Apocalypse Now," featuring superimpositions, nauseating colors, and The Doors' "The End." Just kidding.) My film studies, like Céline Dion's heart in "Titanic," will go on - but more likely in an academic setting. My blog postings will likely be infrequent, though, as they have been for the past few months, something for which I wish to apologize. In fact, my hiatus is, in its own way, a formal apology to you and a formal acknowledgment of my absence from the site. Nevertheless, I will continue to post in the future, so have no fear! I had a posting about "the death of cinema" (à la Gregg Araki's "The Living End") lined up, so hopefully you will at least see that one before the end of the summer.

Post-script: In my absence, I did not formally recognize the passings of Gary Coleman, Rue McClanahan, or film legend Dennis Hopper. Rest in peace.

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Fish out of Water

*** out of ****

If someone were to ask you where in the Bible is a reference to homosexuality, could you tell him or her? If someone were to attempt to persuade you the Bible claims outright that homosexuality is wrong, could you defend yourself?

Ky Dickens’ didactic “Fish out of Water” (2009) is an engaging resource for those that cannot defend themselves against those who take it upon themselves to be “Biblical spokespeople.” The part-2D animated film, part-documentary delineates the “grossly misinterpreted” Biblical passages used ritually to condemn those who identify as GLBTQ, including the stories of Adam and Eve and Sodom and Gomorrah, the passages of Leviticus, and the writings of Paul in Romans, Corinthians, and Timothy.

Although it plays like a History Channel program, with its assemblage of found footage, including photographs, statistics, newspaper headlines, instructional videos, amateur footage, old films, and art, “Fish out of Water” uses these tools to its advantage in involving the spectator, who probably identifies as GLBTQ. Hopefully eventually, this adorable film can find its rightful audience in the mainstream, which seems to be Dickens’ intention all along – to communicate this information through the widely disseminated medium of film.

Dickens claims rightfully that religious conviction plays a huge role in modern discrimination against gay marriage rights, including the institution of Prop 8 in California. Moreover, Dickens asserts rightfully (again) that many of these religious beliefs are often personally un-researched and founded in hearsay. Her film’s goals, then, are threefold: 1.) To “out,” so to speak, these popular convictions based on hearsay; 2.) To prove how the Bible – being a book – cannot be interpreted without its cultural, social, and linguistic contexts; and 3.) To change people’s minds by informing the mainstream why they have been wrong to discriminate against GLBTQ people.

Although Dickens’ film is multifaceted and multifarious in its uses of the film medium (documentary, animation, etc.), I see something in her film that is rare in others: It is structured like an essay. This aspect is important because it assigns her narration a level of intelligence that makes her statements hard to brush off (not to mention the intelligence of the educated theologians she calls on to teach these commonly misinterpreted Biblical passages to viewers.) Dickens delineates her film with theses, “first”-s, “next”-s, etc. A Vanderbilt alumnus, indeed, as Dickens notes in the exposition of her film.

Besides theologians, Dickens films interviews with staunch opponents of GLBTQ rights, such as Fred Phelps, famously of the Westboro Baptist Church (a.k.a. God Hates Fags). Although he speaks his mind, often conflating members of the groups he opposes, including Jews and gays, Phelps’ outrageous statements end up being completely laughable, surrounded as they are among a sea of educated responses. Oddly enough, they might be the (very ironic) comic relief of the film.

Dickens is only a first-time filmmaker, but her work is compelling and likable. Many who identify as GLBTQ – myself included – would have begged for a resource such as this one prior to this film’s creation. Well, here it is: cute on the outside, subversive on the inside. Dickens might have felt like a “fish out of water,” referring to the film’s title, but she brings everyone in right with her.

*As seen in the April 2010 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Trash

** ½ out of ****

A professor of mine once described Warhol protégé Paul Morrissey’s 1970 film, “Trash” (officially titled “Andy Warhol’s “Trash”), as “very, well, trashy.” No description more succinct and more appropriate has ever been uttered.

The first image of “Trash” is Warhol Superstar Geri Miller performing fellatio on the protagonist, Joe Dallesandro, a physically jacked heroin junkie with a lusciously curved ass on which Morrissey’s camera idles. “Trash” is not really pornography, though, despite the brief rise of pornography in mainstream cinema around that time. Instead, “Trash” centers on the mundane activities of Joe as he feeds his habit and, as a result, has a bad habit of being impotent.

Of note, Morrissey’s grainy footage and penchant for close-ups can be misleading. Although it contributes a documentary-like sensibility to “Trash” – and, hence, a more “real” aesthetic – I do not think Morrissey’s purpose is to follow Joe around like in a modern reality television show. Instead, Morrissey was interested in depicting the consequences of too much sloth and decadence. (In fact, the title of the film was originally to be the obviously self-conscious “Drug Trash.”) As a result, it becomes purposefully difficult (on the film’s part) to permit spectators to identify with Joe’s stiff, nebulous performance and perpetual stupor (despite his evident sex appeal).

But how is this film queer, you ask? Enter Holly Woodlawn, transsexual Warhol Superstar and Joe’s on-screen girlfriend and landlady, Holly. She hilariously derides Joe for his habits and histrionically and enthrallingly steals every scene in which she appears. Her presence in the film, though, activates the film’s queer element, unlocking copious amounts of (pan)sexualities.

In one scene where Jane (played by Warhol Superstar Jane Forth, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Julianne Moore’s Amber Waves in “Boogie Nights” (1997)) sits with Joe while he bathes, she coyly asks, “Are you one of those bisexual people?” He ambivalently responds, “Naw.” However, by way of the plot, viewers learn that Joe does have sex with men and women (supposedly when he can “get it up”). The typical assumption would be to say that Joe is actually bisexual, as a result. However, how do you describe his sexual relations with Holly, who is transsexual? He is a queer character because his sexuality exists on an unfixed continuum that incorporates Holly.

But what does this queer ubiquity say about “Trash”? It could be argued that, to Morrissey, it becomes another factor in the film’s repulsive debauchery. On the other hand, the optimistic perspective would emphasize the positive response to the film, especially from audiences that included (the) most famously gay director of Classical Hollywood cinema, George Cukor. “Trash” is “very, well, trashy,” and it is indulgently enjoyable (and embarrassing, depending on with whom you screen it), but its place in queer cinema history is certain. Even if Morrissey was trying to depict depravity in order to criticize it, he still donated an important film to our canon.

(Coincidentally, I discovered a book on this subject after having written this review. This book is (appropriately) called Trash: A Queer Film Classic (Queer Film Classics).)

*As seen in the March 2010 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Random Musing: No Ontology without Ritual - Feminism in Maya Deren’s Ritual in Transfigured Time

P. Adams Sitney usefully describes "Ritual in Transfigured Time" [Maya Deren, 1945] as the complex “architectonic film,” which, as a concept, aims to blend myth and ritual (Sitney, Visionary Film, pg. 25). Maya Deren’s film unifies mythical tales of the Norns, the Fates, the Graces, and Pygmalion with rituals of marriage, dance, and domesticity. I argue that the openly secret common denominator between these motifs is feminism, specifically as it relates to the ontology of the female protagonist(s). If ontology is the study of the state of being, then my assertion pursues the question of how the film represents the (specifically) female’s state of existence. The death of woman without domestic ritual or as a result of the marriage ritual seems to be a criticism from a distinctly feminist perspective. As any film is presented through the critical lens of its filmmaker, "Ritual"’s Maya Deren presents viewers with her epistemological reflection on woman’s subservience to ritual (woman is born, marries a man, domestically serves a man, is widowed by man, and dies) and how it affects the woman’s ontology.

For Deren, the female protagonist in "Ritual" follows a “sexual rite of passage from ‘widow to bride’” (quoted by Sitney, pg. 26). Furthermore, “'Ritual' has two principal figures, although ultimately the film reduces itself to the initiation of a single persona, the female” (pgs. 25-6). Considering these two thoughts together, Deren’s tale is one of female degeneration – from two personae to one and from widow (the near-“end” of a woman’s life) to bride (the conventional, conservative “beginning” of a woman’s life, especially as it relates to domesticity).

The two personae first come into contact at the beginning of the film. (In fact, it could be said that the presence of the first woman, “the invoker” (played by Deren herself), “wills into life” the second woman, “the widow,” in a feat that is distinctly maternal. Furthermore, it is interesting that the state of being of “the widow” begins at the near-“end” of her “life”). While “the widow” makes a ball of yarn from the wool between the hands of “the invoker,” the act of running out of wool causes “the invoker” to disappear; her ontology is compromised because when the wool in her hands no longer exists, she, as a woman in the domestic sphere, ceases to exist.

On the other hand, the widow’s ontology is questioned at the end of the film, when she runs into the water and sinks (in a negative image). Instead of drowning in her black dress and scarf, she goes underwater in a bridal gown, obviously a particularly feminist criticism of marriage as “the veritable end of female existence.” Technically, then, the bride goes out of existence as the final image fades out. However, I optimistically read the bride’s final freeze frame in the negative image as an appeal for a new ontology. She no longer exists in the conventionally “positive” image, so her position outside of ritual (especially as it relates to cinematography) puts her in the position to grow outside the constricting boundaries of “death” by marriage, filmed as a “positive” image.

"Ritual in Transfigured Time" engages in studying the ontology of female personae, especially in regard to architectonics. Woman (as represented by “the invoker” persona) cannot exist without domestic obligations to give her ontology worth, but woman (as represented by “the widow-to-bride” persona) also cannot exist with the conservative obligation of the marriage ritual (as she drowns in her gown). However, the fact that the final image of this second persona is in negative image offers hope to the evolution of woman to a new ontology outside of ritual and cinematic conventions. Even if this film is full of feminist criticisms of ritual, I prefer to think that my optimistic interpretation of the final shots affirm the potential for the female to escape ritual.

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Parting Glances

** ½ out of ****

Bill Sherwood’s “Parting Glances” (1986) is a film that is rather like candy; it is a sweet confectionary while you indulge, but a taste that does not last long after it is gone. Ambitious but flawed, “Parting Glances” is certainly an admirable effort from first-time director Sherwood (who died four years later of complications from AIDS, having never made another film). One of the biggest weaknesses of this romantic comedy about a gay couple of six years, Michael (Richard Ganoung) and Robert (John Bolger, “General Hospital”), is that it seems slightly unfocused at times. The center of the film is a celebration party for the imminent, work-related departure of Robert to Africa (who has agreed to go because he feels things on the home front are growing stale), but this feels like a weightless space to me. I think the real heart of the film is the side story about Michael’s former lover and best friend, Nick (Steve Buscemi), who deals gracefully with AIDS.

Not only does Buscemi steal every scene in which he appears, but his story is particularly relevant in the 1980s, a time when HIV/AIDS was a “gay disease” and a death sentence. Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of “Parting Glances” is the fact that it treats Nick with as much respect as he does himself. Instead of feeling sorry for him or treating his character morbidly, Nick fires off some of the film’s funniest lines. Buscemi brings an impressive amount of charisma to Nick, one of his first film roles.

In addition, Kathy Kinney (“The Drew Carey Show”), in her first film role, is equally hilarious as Michael and Robert’s fag-hag artist friend, Joan. In fact, the performances of these two supporting characters, Nick and Joan, greatly overshadow the two leads, Michael and Robert. Ganoung’s caring and sensitive Michael is an admirable protagonist, but he is not satisfying enough alone. On the other hand, Bolger’s Robert is more like wallpaper with his stiff acting and “to-be-looked-at”-ness.

I suppose my sentiments about the two leads logically inform my preference for Nick’s story over the main story. “Parting Glances” offers a surprisingly enjoyable, laugh-out-loud approach to a bleak subject. In this regard, Sherwood’s script is unbelievably natural and novel for its time. In fact, it could be said that the film’s novelty, which rests especially in its depiction of a character with AIDS (and especially one who resists death), predates the early ‘90s New Queer Cinema.

Unfortunately, I cannot help but feel these positive aspects of the film are weakened by the parts where the plot loses some focus in frivolous dialogue and gratuitous scenes. This could simply be attributed to the fact that Sherwood is a first-time filmmaker. However, having seen the aspirations of “Parting Glances,” I wonder what Sherwood’s later work could have been like.

*As seen in the January 2010 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Querelle

*** out of ****

“Querelle,” released in 1982 before the death of German auteur filmmaker, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, has the dubious notoriety of being his last will and testament. I once read a fascinating remark that the film’s plot parallels Fassbinder’s own plummet toward suicide. Although this interpretation is unsubstantiated (and unable to be substantiated), “Querelle” remains a curious film, what Fassbinder called his “most important film.” One reason for its strangeness results from the fact that it is not a direct adaptation of openly homosexual French author Jean Genet’s “Querelle de Brest,” but is, rather, “a film about” said novel.

At this point, a description of this erotic film is warranted: tough, sexy sailor Georges Querelle (Brad Davis, “Midnight Express”) arrives in the French port of Brest, a town with a perpetual sunset and a phallocentric setting, and discovers La Feria, the local cabaret. His purpose is twofold: to smuggle opium to its owner, Nono (Gunther Kaufmann), and to sleep with Nono’s wife, Lysiane (Jeanne Moreau). After killing his own smuggling partner, Querelle submits to his own degradation and purposefully loses a game of dice so that instead of bedding Lysiane, Nono will sodomize him. However, Querelle discovers that he actually likes the activity and begins to endeavor toward his complete self-annihilation and disempowerment by becoming a sex slave to other men.

To the casual viewer, this film is going to be a nightmare instead of the wet dream it is intended to be. The plot is extremely confusing, the gratuitous violence and sexuality are shocking, and the robotic performances by its leading actors are also no help. In fact, “Querelle” requires knowledge of its director’s style in order to actually be enjoyable (which it can be). Fassbinder, an avid fan of Brechtian alienation, uses such elements as purposely stiff performances, static compositions, intertitles with quotes or narration, and confusing planes of space (via an abundance of mirrors) to disorient viewers and keep them consciously critical of what they are watching. “Querelle,” despite its salacious images of gay erotic fetishization, such as hunky, beefy sailors, a leather-bound policeman, and penises abound in the setting, is not to be confused with pornography. Instead, Fassbinder’s thesis might well inform the narrator’s comment: “Humility can only be born of humiliation; otherwise, it is nothing but vanity.” Therefore, “Querelle” is actually a film about a narcissistic man’s complete humiliation so that he can attain humility and, in effect, humanity.

For those of you who are daring enough to see it, “Querelle” is certainly worth the effort. It is a beautiful film, resplendent in surrealist imagery, phallic architecture, and colors so rich that it would make Vittorio Storaro (“Apocalypse Now,” “The Last Emperor,” “Dick Tracy”) proud. Beneath the labyrinthine structure of the narrative, there are many depths to be explored and secrets to be unlocked. However, because I would be living in a dream world (pun intended) to critique this film based on only these qualities and to ignore its difficulties for casual viewers, I must admit that “Querelle” is far from perfect. But still, that does not mean there are not those who will admire it greatly for its cinematic prospects.

*As seen in the November 2009 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Dog Day Afternoon

**** out of ****

Vito Russo’s seminal work on gays and lesbians in film, “The Celluloid Closet,” bemoans Sidney Lumet’s 1975 classic, high-energy “Dog Day Afternoon,” calling it “the ultimate freak show, a film that used the sensational side of a true story to titillate a square audience.” And so it does, but I think there is more to Lumet’s film than meets the eye.

The film’s first shots inoculate viewers with its “day-in-the-life” harmlessness: A handheld camera captures construction workers hard at work, children playing by the pool, and men watering the lawn. Sonny (played by Al Pacino with palpable nervousness and significant intelligence), Sal (portrayed by John Cazale as a ticking time-bomb), and Stevie (Gary Springer) arrive at a bank with seeming innocence, and then they stick it up.

This is an event that is certainly out-of-the-ordinary, heralding the film’s forthcoming sentiments of Vietnam-era anti-establishment.

First, is it not weird how a story can consistently deceive viewers into rooting for the protagonist, even if he is an anti-hero robbing a bank? Establishment generally roots in favor of the heroes, or the police and FBI waiting outside the bank (once the robbery quickly goes wrong, ten or so minutes in). Why do viewers continue to identify with Sonny, who maintains his logic through the whole ordeal, trying to negotiate his and Sal’s (Stevie flees early on) escapes to sanctity? Certainly, Sonny is a charismatic and smart anti-hero—not necessarily a villain—because, after all, we discover he is robbing the bank to pay for his wife’s sex-change operation.

This brings me to my second point, how Sonny, though possessing wife and children, has a male lover (also called his “wife”), whom he married the previous year in an essentially fake wedding. When the media learns these details after Leon (Chris Sarandon, Susan’s ex) is escorted to the scene of the crime to try to convince Sonny to give up, they turn their coverage of the robbery into a circus sideshow starring the queers, proffering photos of Leon in his wedding gown. Director Lumet criticizes the media (a likely precursor to his “Network” from the next year) as they turn Sonny’s story into a full-blown frenzy.

Meanwhile, the idea that Sonny is a queer husband and anti-hero is something iconoclastic to both the institutions of marriage and of film history. In fact, I use the word “queer” not to mean gay, but in a more pansexual manner. The film tries to lay the “gay” title on Sonny, but his sexual interest in both his wife and “wife” suggest an indefinable sexuality, something more subversive and harder to pin down.

“Dog Day Afternoon” is laden with criticisms of other institutions, including the police and even the human race itself. During the initial negotiations between Sonny and the police, he openly attacks their notorious brutality and his suspicions about how they will treat him with his unforgettable battle cry, “Attica, Attica!” Not only does Sonny criticize authority, but director Lumet also takes the opportunity to underline the seedy side of human nature when Sonny throws marked bills into the crowds that have accumulated to see the spectacle. Their greed is tangible when you see them mercilessly crush each other, just to grab a bill or two.

In the end, “Dog Day Afternoon” is an arresting, frenetic account of a true story (based on the story of John Wojtowicz, who held up a Chase Manhattan Bank branch in Brooklyn in 1972), portrayed effectively by its leading actors and through the energetic direction by Sidney Lumet and the hard-hitting, dead-on screenplay by Frank Pierson.

*As seen in the September 2009 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Prick Up Your Ears

*** out of ****

Stephen Frears’ 1987 gay hidden treasure, “Prick Up Your Ears,” is both an intriguing document of the life of playwright Joe Orton (Gary Oldman) and his lover, Kenneth Halliwell (Alfred Molina), and a fascinating insight into gay “swinging London.” In fact, this film, whose name and subject matter comes from Orton’s biography, seems more about his thriving sex life than his writing. Apparently he could write, and he even won an award (depicted in the film in the scene where he attends the ceremony with his agent, Peggy, played in a refined way by Vanessa Redgrave), but at the heart of the film are Orton’s unorthodox sexual proclivities (at least in ‘60s England, when homosexuality was still illegal).

Like Frears’ breakout film, 1985’s “My Beautiful Launderette,” the main characters are homosexuals, but in this film, Orton’s love affair with Kenneth Halliwell eventually becomes his downfall. Things between the two begin well, though: Orton and Halliwell are acting colleagues in England’s prestigious Royal Academy of the Dramatic Arts and become “collaborators” in writing books that are constantly turned down as too unconventional. However, the pair’s lack of convention makes them fascinating people. After a short prison sentence due to their vandalism of library books, Orton comes out the more fascinating of the two, as his plays (written alone, mind you) go on to great acclaim, and Halliwell’s role as a collaborator turns into the dreary job of giving Orton’s acclaimed plays their titles. Eventually, Halliwell becomes fed-up with Orton’s success and bludgeons him to death with a hammer to the skull. Then, quite predictably, he commits suicide with an overdose of prescription drugs. (This “ending” actually happens at the beginning, as the film is told in flashback.) Although this ending seems typical—almost obligatory—of older films with gay characters, this film is different from many others that came before it, largely because of its surprising acceptance of a particularly promiscuous homosexual lifestyle (rare for even 1987).

Though the film falls into periods where the plot does not seem to advance, “Prick Up Your Ears” is saved by its leading actors’ performances—its greatest asset. Alfred Molina’s Kenneth is a paranoid, dejected basket case, for whom viewers can feel sorry, while Gary Oldman’s virile, promiscuous Joe conjures and replicates the smug self-confidence and sadistic sense of humor of Malcolm McDowell in “A Clockwork Orange.” Although the two appear mismatched onscreen, their charisma is unquestionable and the tragic story of their characters becomes that much more effective. If the film’s abundance of implied sex does not surprise you, at least the acting pleasantly will.

*As seen in the August 2009 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

** ½ out of ****

Since the release of “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone” in Britain in 1997, the beloved J.K. Rowling-penned series has always left its readers with a favorite and a least favorite book. I think the same can be said of the film series, which began with “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” in 2001, so I believe that can permit me to humbly opine that this summer’s release of “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” is, thus far, the most disappointing offering. The good thing about the series so far is that no film has suffered the inevitable “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest” syndrome, in that a film has existed for the sole purpose of being a means to an end or a segue to something bigger to come. Unfortunately, I can no longer say that. Although this “Harry Potter” maintains the increasingly darker atmosphere that has developed through the series, it fails at retaining some of the aspects that have made the films so enjoyable.

There seems to be a formula for each “Harry Potter” story: Harry begins his summer among the “Muggles” (that is, non-magical folk), he returns to school to face a new adventure, a series of dark events occur, Harry battles Lord Voldemort or the Death Eaters and saves the day (at least temporarily), and he leaves Hogwarts for the summer. For the newest offering, the formula is almost the same, except Harry does not save the day, and many side stories have changed or been infinitesimally limited. For example, the second half of the film’s title, “The Half-Blood Prince,” which usually indicates its significance as the driving motivation for the story, becomes quickly abandoned in this film in favor of foregrounding the main character’s “J-14”-esque boy/girl attractions and the hunt for the secret Professor Slughorn (Jim Broadbent) hides about his former pupil, Tom Riddle (a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, for those of you who dare to speak his name). What is most baffling is how the “Half-Blood Prince” becomes casually revealed at the end of the film, with almost next-to-no typical, adventurous search from Potter. Even more perturbing is how there is no great battle between good and evil at the end of the film.

Although I generally hate redundant formulas for sequels’ stories, I do not think I would mind something as exciting as “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” again. In terms of the story, character development, and overall thrills, that film falls together so perfectly that it might well be the masterpiece of the series, thus far. Unfortunately, “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” feels less cohesive than that offering, even if it still does not bore, in the least.

Perhaps the more mature performances help. The three leading actors are definitely not 12-year-olds anymore, and maybe growing older with their respective character has helped them grow into their character’s skin more (or maybe famously performing naked onstage in “Equus” helps). Anyway, “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” has a lot of other fine acting talents to go around: Michael Gambon’s beloved Professor Dumbledore has more screentime than usual, and I think he will finally deservedly attain as much adoration as the elderly wizard as his predecessor, the late Richard Harris, whose gentle Dumbledore has been long preferred; Jim Broadbent, with his tender, sheepish demeanor and big, blue eyes, is perfectly cast as Professor Slughorn, even if his performance feels strongly repetitive of his Oscar-winning role in 2001’s “Iris”; Helena Bonham-Carter steals every scene in which she appears as creepy, frolicking Bellatrix Lestrange; and, most surprising of all, Tom Felton is stunning as Harry’s arch-nemesis Draco Malfoy, whose earlier performances have been youthfully cocky but are now hauntingly complex and painfully troubled.

These performances provide a strong root for the film, which is enjoyable enough that its 153-minute runtime comes and goes without five seconds of boredom. “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” even if it does not quite stand up to its predecessors, does, at least, seem like a portent for good things to come with the release of the two-part “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” (2010 and 2011).

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Far from Heaven

*** ½ out of ****

I love retro styles in modern film, and Todd Haynes’ artistically sumptuous “Far from Heaven” (2002) is a good representative. The film, whose name comes, in part, from Douglas Sirk’s 1955 “All That Heaven Allows,” is both a carefully calculated, Sirkian homage to the decade and a fascinating criticism of its conventions. The lush cinematography, saturated colors, and lavish setting, costuming, and lighting that characterize German-born director Sirk’s Hollywood work are intended to represent artificiality, and Haynes uses it to his advantage in his story of the perfect nuclear family, Frank and Cathy Whitaker (Dennis Quaid and Julianne Moore), whose fairy tale life comes crashing down around them. Even though Todd Haynes, a notable director of New Queer Cinema, uses homosexuality again in this film as a plot twist, his film actually goes beyond that and really thinks outside the box. Also encompassing racial and female oppression and repression, “Far from Heaven” is actually a criticism of society’s homogeneity and demonstrates what it means to be different.

“Far from Heaven” is full of outstanding performances, the finest being that of Julianne Moore as Cathy Whitaker. Moore makes robotic and conservative Cathy into the pristine, uber-nuclear mom at the beginning of the film. However, when she grows out of convention and inadvertently becomes a supporter of racial integration in her town, Moore emerges as a touching, emotional, and sympathetic woman unable to exact her deepest feelings for her gardener, Raymond Deagan, simply because he is black. The binary anguish and emptiness that crosses her sensitive face are often truly heartbreaking. In addition, the two sources of her anguish, Dennis Haysbert as Deagan and Dennis Quaid as Frank Whitaker, both turn in great performances in their own right. Haysbert’s Deagan is a warm, tender soul and a performance not too unlike that of Morgan Freeman’s Hoke from 1989’s “Driving Miss Daisy.”Quaid’s miserable, homosexually repressed Frank strongly recalls the wounded masculinity of drunken Robert Stack in Sirk’s “Written on the Wind.”

It is this abundance of repression that drives the comment Haynes’ film is making as it daringly tears down the notion of the ‘50s as G-rated bliss. All of the main characters are fighting their natural desires in order to meet societal conventions, and this practice disgusts Haynes. Under the surface, Haynes’ film calls for a new humanism, one for accepting difference. We are all people, Haynes’ film says: black, white, man, woman, heterosexual, or homosexual.

*As seen in the July 2009 issue of "Out & About" newspaper. To access it, click here.*

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Star Trek

** ½ out of ****

A common approach to being “fresh out of ideas” in the film/media industry is to simply go back to basics, as evidenced by the many successful re-workings of film series that have appeared in the last few years, such as “Batman Begins,” “Superman Returns,” and “Casino Royale.” Returning to the drawing board to start from scratch also often means taking the films themselves back to the beginning. Six television series and ten films later, J.J. Abrams (“Mission Impossible III”) revamps the iconic television/film series “Star Trek” with a blockbuster prequel certain to appease the expectations of “trekkies” (unwavering “Star Trek” fans) and to provide a thrilling experience to audiences generally dispassionate about science-fiction films (and even “Star Trek,” believe it or not). Cleverly crafted, “Star Trek” soars on energy, talent, and imagination and is successful at what it sets out to do, even if it is almost all spectacle and little substance. Nevertheless, it is a blockbuster.

Think of this “Star Trek” as a prequel that fills in the gaps for the original series. In the beginning (if there can be such a thing for a film about the future), Robau (Faran Tahir) is the captain of the starship Kelvin, and he is killed by a ruthless Romulan commander named Nero (an unimpressive Eric Bana), who is searching for Spock (pun intended). George Kirk (Chris Hemsworth) valiantly becomes the captain of the ship for twelve minutes and ensures the safe escape of all of his passengers, including his wife (Jennifer Morrison), who is in labor with his child during the getaway. After Kirk heroically sacrifices himself and the Enterprise in a suicide collision with the Romulan warship, his wife makes it safely to Earth with their son, James, who grows up and enlists in Starfleet. A cocky young adult, James Kirk (a formidable Chris Pine, who proves his acting ability beyond the shadow of Shatner and overwhelmingly smoldering good looks) becomes the only person to ever succeed at the Kobayashi Maru, designed by a half-human/half-Vulcan programmer named Spock (a surprisingly effective Zachary Quinto, perhaps the best actor in the film), who wrestles with his human capacity for emotion while trying to maintain his cold, logical appearance. Kirk’s success is only the result of cheating, and he is grounded when Starfleet arranges a rescue for the planet Vulcan, Spock’s home planet, after they send a distress call. However, Kirk, ever the hothead, is able to slip onto the ship ill, under the care of Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy (Karl Urban), and he eventually becomes integral to helping the mission of the entire fleet, who discovers that Vulcan is actually under attack by Nero. When Captain Pike (Bruce Greenwood) becomes a prisoner-of-war on the Romulan ship, Spock and Kirk must work together against the odds and despite their differences in order to save the Federation from Nero’s threat.

Yes, the plot is quite predictable, even for someone as unknowledgeable about “Star Trek” as I am, but I am familiar enough with the characters that I know how this film has to end. When George Kirk becomes the captain at the beginning of the film and nobly saves the day, it becomes painfully apparent that Kirk the son will parallel his father’s bravery at the end of the film—this must be the plot’s direction. Surprisingly, though, the film throws in a multitude of twists and turns that keep things interesting, including the welcome return of Leonard Nimoy (whose capacity I am not at liberty to divulge; in the film’s promotion, his role has been kept under wraps, so I will continue to do the same). However, I am unimpressed with the plot’s fragility, at least at the midway point. In fact, the film depends on a deus ex machina in order to fulfill the story, and I am no fan of a forced hand in the works.

It hardly matters, though, because “Star Trek” is such a wild ride—a charge of adrenaline with visuals so engaging that they become helplessly entrancing. “Star Trek” will change no worlds, though, nor will it alter the course of film history. J.J. Abrams is completely successful in formulating “Star Trek” into a sensational blockbuster and nothing more. Indeed, the film is nothing really new—the story is not a new concept, and once you strip away the film systems, you see that the film has been layered together as a spectacle, not as substance. To truly enjoy “Star Trek,” you must sit back and enjoy the ride—no more, no less. And it is a ride that both “trekkies” and mainstream audiences alike will be able to enjoy.

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Terms of Endearment

** ½ out of ****

In 1983, “Terms of Endearment” clenched the Academy Award for Best Picture. Perhaps to the Academy, “Terms of Endearment” is a poignant, heart-wrenching drama that beautifully depicts a mother/daughter relationship over the course of thirty or so years. To me, however, it is a sappy, run-of-the-mill picture that is held together only by strong performances and occasionally absorbing sequences. This film does not feel like a “Best Picture” to me in the way that a similar film that preceded it by three years, “Ordinary People,” does. “Terms of Endearment” is an occasionally charming, often sentimental film, but in general, with its little real artistic weight, it feels as fluffy as the popcorn you chow down while watching it. (And it is for this reason that I find the selection of James L. Brooks over Ingmar Bergman (for “Fanny and Alexander”) for “Best Director” more than a little reprehensible.)

One of my biggest problems with the film is its insistence on crosscutting between characters, which makes it hard to attach too strongly to either of them. For a film about the bond between a domineering mother and her rebellious daughter who wants a life of her own, it barely bonds to the characters. In addition, the plot seems to lack a conclusive direction until over ninety minutes into the film, when viewers finally realize where the film is really going. Because of this weakness, it seems that the final scenes of the film become cheap shots at belated attachment and sentimentality. Indeed, it is only at the end of the film that Debra Winger’s performance as the daughter, Emma, really begins to shine through. I spent most of the film ambivalent toward her performance (and more than a little annoyed by her cackling laugh), but her role at the end of the film reveals a strength which really solidifies her character and which I feel was missing otherwise.

However, the scenes between Aurora and Garrett are perhaps the best in the film, and the scene where the two race his silver Corvette across the beach is perhaps one of the most memorable scenes in film history. Indeed, one could call Shirley MacLaine’s and Jack Nicholson’s performances the real heart and soul of the film, for it is through their roles that I derive the most enjoyment as a viewer. MacLaine deserved her Oscar for playing control freak Aurora Greenway, a woman who has tried to dominate her daughter since her birth, fears falling for her “arrogant, self-centered, and somewhat entertaining” neighbor, Garrett, and amusingly detests the sound of the word “Grandma.” Her compatriot, Jack Nicholson, as ex-astronaut Garrett Breedlove, plays a role that seems closer than most of his other celebrated roles to his own off-screen persona—that of a devilish, hedonist womanizer with a penchant for dark sunglasses. However, he remains enjoyable nonetheless, and, of course, perhaps playing yourself is the easiest role of all.

To the tune of Michael Gore’s memorable score, “Terms of Endearment” is, all in all, a treat for those looking for “a good cry” and mindless entertainment guided by emotion. However, it falls short in real artistic merit and exposes director Brooks’ amateurish, television-styled undertaking (something to which he was accustomed, having created and produced television shows such as “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” “Rhoda,” and “Taxi”). However, “Terms of Endearment” has its own magical qualities that save it from complete mediocrity. For example, the film succeeds with the strong performances of Shirley MacLaine and Jack Nicholson (and, to some extent, Debra Winger). So, indeed, “Best Actress” and “Best Supporting Actor,” but “Best Picture” or “Best Director”? I do not agree.

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Written on the Wind

**** out of ****

One of the great paradoxes of humanity is the way that we audibly deplore reality television and especially soap operas for their over-the-top melodrama and absurd storylines, but we also, in secret, cannot get enough of the theatrics. Humans thrive on the attention-grabbing, eye-pleasing cotton candy confectionery of relationships presented in melodrama. This is why “Written on the Wind” makes for such a great film for audiences. Combine the rich entertainment value with sleek, beautiful art direction, impressive direction by Douglas Sirk, stellar performances, and irresistible dialogue, and “Written on the Wind” may be one of the greatest melodramas, if not one of the best films, ever made.

Forget “Dirty, Sexy Money” and everything you know about what is “beautiful, dirty, rich”—the Hadleys of “Written on the Wind” are the precursors of probably every disgustingly decadent, morally handicapped family in film and on television. The film begins with Kyle Hadley’s (Robert Stack) pursuit of New York executive secretary Lucy Moore (Lauren Bacall) that leads to a whirlwind courtship and quick marriage. Mitch Wayne (Rock Hudson) is Hadley’s loyal friend, a strong, sensitive type who always takes care of his silver spoon-fed friend, the son of Texas oil baron, Jasper Hadley (Robert Keith). Jasper Hadley’s other child is daughter Marylee (Dorothy Malone), a devilishly sexy woman who desires Mitch but contents herself with a number of male sexual partners in the meantime. Kyle Hadley’s impulsive marriage begins to fall apart when he is told that he is deficient in his ability to reproduce. He turns heavily to the bottle for consolation and reacts violently when his wife, Lucy, happily tells him that he is indeed not a failure and that she is pregnant. However, the seeds of doubt have been planted in his head by Marylee, who has implied to him an affair between Lucy and Mitch, who is indeed in love with her from a distance but remains loyal to Kyle. Kyle’s reactions spiral out of control, leading to the wildly tenuous conclusion and to perhaps the self-destruction of the Hadley clan.

Most importantly, “Written on the Wind,” with its handsome direction by Douglas Sirk, is a picture that must be considered in “epic proportions”— as “a melodrama to end all melodramas.” With the aid of cinematography and art direction, the film’s rich colors are one of its greatest features, revealing the superficiality and artificiality intrinsic to the lifestyles of the Hadleys (also with the help of mirrors as a motif). In addition, the score is romanticized in the sumptuous style of Wagner (complete with leitmotifs!), which continues to allude to the film’s lushness, which, in turn, reminds viewers of the story’s greater superficiality.

Another enjoyable aspect of “Written on the Wind” is the performances. Bacall and Hudson are formidable in their roles as Lucy and Mitch, but the antagonistic, brazen—almost audacious—performances of Stack and Malone as spoiled rotten Kyle and Marylee far outweigh the more subdued acting of the main stars. Malone is indeed the biggest scene-stealer in the whole film, and her Academy Award is duly noted. Her facial acting is impressive in scenes where Sirk frames her in all shadow, save for her eyes, and other scenes, including the scene where she reflects alone by the pond and the scene of her final redemption, are particularly touching. Demonstrating her dynamic range of acting skills, Malone is also impressive as “sex kitten.” Interestingly enough, although she does thirst for sex, especially with Mitch, I would not call her the nymphomaniac most critics call her (which I would go so far as to identify as a result of double standards in identifying the sexual desires of women). Malone’s sexuality is a great plot device in “Written on the Wind,” and the strength she brings to the role of Marylee certainly fuels the film’s sexuality, which bubbles forcefully just below the surface.

Speaking of the film’s underlying sexuality, there are euphemisms abound in “Written on the Wind,” which often salaciously spice up the dialogue. For example, in the morning after Kyle’s and Lucy’s night in Miami, his use of the word “fun” basically talks coyly around the idea of trying to bed her the previous night. Interestingly enough, possibly constructed in part due to the Hays Code in effect at the time, I think the film’s veiled naughty conversation actually comes off much more delightfully than if it were allowed to be “spelled out.” Innuendo, after all, is more sugary sweet to the ears. This kind of well-written dialogue is also bolstered by being fiendishly catty, scandalous, and full of incredible one-liners (my favorite being Malone’s biting “Because I never had him… but your wife has”). Best of all, though, the plot has ridiculously over-the-top twists (like most good melodrama), which makes the whole film so indelibly delicious.

And it is this deliciousness that will keep us watching Sirk’s picture for another fifty years. The film’s exquisite beauty has not lost its luster over the years, and the film’s audacious plot is still as delightfully tacky today as it must have been in 1956. Sirk’s story of superficiality might, then, be ageless. “Written on the Wind?” Hardly.

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Autumn Sonata (Höstsonaten)

*** ½ out of ****

Most people would like to blame their parents for the difficulties in their lives, and in the case of the 1978 Swedish film, “Autumn Sonata,” the blame might actually be well-founded. This beautifully photographed picture that finally brought together two of the greatest Swedes in the film industry, director Ingmar Bergman and actress Ingrid Bergman (no relation), is the powerful, haunting story of an estranged mother and daughter rehashing personal wounds from the skeletons of their closets. In “Autumn Sonata,” Charlotte (Ingrid Bergman), a virtuoso concert pianist, finally visiting her daughter, plain, simple Eva (Liv Ullman) after seven years, ultimately does not get the warm welcome she expects. Although the film gets a bit talkative, it is a nearly perfect account of damaged human relationships.

One of the great powers of “Autumn Sonata” lies in its two main actresses. Ingrid Bergman, unfortunately in her last theatrical film role, brings life to selfish, lonely Charlotte. Her skill at the piano is exquisite—she masters music, notably Chopin, in the way she says his “Prelude No. 2” should be played: so perfectly it is almost imperfect. However, Charlotte’s mastery over her own family is poor—the neglect of her husband and two daughters has led Eva to great personal anguish that she has long bottled up. Eva, in the meantime, assumed the role of the “mother” of the family at an early age, sitting with her abandoned father and caring for her sickly sister, Helena (impressively played by Lena Nyman). She notes that, unlike her mother’s Chopin, her own imperfection has long been something that has had to be corrected, not emphasized. Ullman’s interpretation of her character is rather affecting and certainly astonishing as she transforms from simple wife and daughter to a violently angry woman scorned by her mother.

The acting is certainly augmented by Ingmar Bergman’s skillful direction. This film is an explosive study of human relationships, and Ingmar Bergman treats it as such. By way of the many close-ups he posits, he essentially puts his characters under a microscope. Furthermore, the cuts are quite infrequent, as if Bergman is only interested in putting the camera in someone’s face and studying the way he or she feels. Even Viktor (Halvar Björk), Eva’s husband, says twice in the film that sometimes he likes to watch his wife when she is not aware. Within the film frame, viewers study the relationship between Charlotte and Eva, but within the film’s door frames, Viktor sometimes studies Eva. The film, then, is a self-reflexive allegory on the way we all study each other in life and on film.

“Autumn Sonata,” with its study of the estrangement of family members, recalls such later films as “On Golden Pond” and “Postcards from the Edge.” However, the relationships depicted in those two films, though both extremely well-acted, hardly hold a candle to the explosive performances of the deeply wounded Bergman and Ullman as Charlotte and Eva. While the film does get wearingly talkative at times in its ninety-seven minutes onscreen, the lightning the two actresses strike together is certainly poignant. Amidst the magnificent oranges, reds, and yellows of the film’s mise-en-scène, their misery recalls the foliage that begins to fall in the autumn. For them, unhappiness continues to fall with the leaves.

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