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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In the News: Karl Malden

Today, we have lost one of the greats of classic Hollywood: actor Karl Malden, who won Best Supporting Actor for his role as Mitch in Elia Kazan's 1951 film, "A Streetcar Named Desire." 97-year-old Malden died in his sleep at about 2:30 a.m. on Wednesday, his manager announced. Malden was born Mladen George Sekulovich and raised in Gary, Indiana. (How sad it must be for the city to lose two of its natives within a week of each other.) The actor, known for his famously "bulbous nose," made his New York stage debut in 1938 and made his Hollywood debut in 1940 with "They Knew What They Wanted." After serving in the Army Air Corps in World War II, he finally found real success as an actor in the New York production of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Malden is probably best-known for his fruitful teamings with director Elia Kazan, including the film adaptation of "Streetcar," "On the Waterfront," where he played upright Father Barry (and was nominated for a second Oscar), and "Baby Doll." In 1970, Malden played General Omar Bradley alongside Oscar-winner George C. Scott in that year's Best Picture, "Patton," and later that decade, he starred, with Michael Douglas, in TV's "The Streets of San Francisco." From 1989 to 1992, Malden was the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. In 2004, he received the Screen Actors' Guild Life Achievement Award.

For more information on Karl Malden's passing, click here (CNN.com's obituary). Goodbye, Karl Malden. May you rest in peace.

*No need to press "Read More." Thank you.*

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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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Random Musing: Chéri

This past year at Vanderbilt, I took a year-long French history and literature class (in French, mind you) called "Textes et Contextes," which aimed to teach the two subjects by the ways in which they interact. The first semester covered the Middle Ages to 1850 (which was really more history than literature), and the second semester covered 1850 to the present (which was really more literature than history). In the latter semester, we analyzed samples from the works of de Maupassant, Camus, Duras, and others. One of the others happened to be an extract from Colette's "La Fin de Chéri." Colette's style of writing was certainly interesting, although the story was a bit nebulous for us English-speaking readers of the original French text (thanks to its focus on nuance).

Not long ago, I happened to discover that Michelle Pfeiffer would be starring in a film adaptation of "Chéri" (with Stephen Frears ("The Queen") directing!). I adore Michelle Pfeiffer, and I admire Stephen Frears' work, so I have been quite ecstatic to see its theatrical release...

...And now it's here. I have read two reviews of the film in the course of the last few hours: one, which is clearly frivolous and elementary (found in "People"), and the other, which is a stirring, thoughtful reflection (as always, coming from Roger Ebert). I cannot discuss my own thoughts on the film any further, having not seen it yet, but I think that Ebert, as usual, has summed up what I am anticipating about the film. (However, he never mentions what I am currently predicting: potential Oscar nominations.)

"Chéri" is currently in limited release nationwide. Boy, I wish I could see it now...

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Random Musing: Andy Warhol (Part Two)

*WARNING: Though this blog has been written for only intellectual purposes, some of the films discussed in this blog are highly sexual in nature and might not be suitable for children under 13. Please get parental permission before reading more.*

In yesterday's "Part One" blog on artist and avant-garde filmmaker Andy Warhol, I discussed his first film, "Sleep" (1963), and introduced him as the kind of filmmaker who challenges conventions and our expectations about film as an art everytime he makes a new movie. Today, I want to explore his other more notable works...

"Kiss" is a 1963 film starring two couples, both of whom kiss in a close-up shot for three minutes each (as a retort to the Hays Code's rule that all onscreen kisses must be no longer than three seconds). And as if that were not enough, the second couple is gay.



"Mario Banana" is a 1964 film starring Mario Montez, a transgendered Factory Superstar who took his name as an homage to the camp icon and famously bad actress Maria Montez.





In the two parts of this queer film (how else would you describe a transgendered person insinuating a taboo act on a banana?), Montez seductively toys with his phallic fruit in one close-up shot. It is important to notice how Montez's erotic eyes constantly strike the viewer during his lewd fellatio. This film is obviously self-aware of its sexuality, and it shows how the relationship between actor and viewer becomes crucial for it to succeed. (It later seems that awareness of the viewer is important for almost all of Warhol's more sexual films after "Sleep" and "Kiss.")

In the same year, Warhol made the erotic, voyeuristic "Blow Job," which is comprised of one lengthy, close-up shot that studies only the pleasure on the face of DeVeren Bookwalter (who is supposedly receiving oral sex from filmmaker Willard Maas, although the camera never tilts down nor zooms out to see this).





What is so awe-inspiring about this particular film is how Warhol tests our ability to suspend disbelief. For example, when we watch any film in general, we "play along" with its artificial construction in order to make it all believable. However, "Blow Job" forces us to believe in it, even more so than usual, because if we do not, then how do we know the handsome Bookwalter is actually getting his titular "Blow Job" and not just going through the motions he would feel if he were getting one? In addition, because the film is silent, Warhol is tricking his viewers into filling the rest of the film with our own imagination: the man on his knees in the lower off-screen space, the moans and words coming from Bookwalter's mouth, and the sensations Bookwalter must be feeling. Therefore, the film has become what we make of it―a personal fantasy, never the same from person to person. Later, Warhol continues to challenge convention by allowing Bookwalter to break the fourth wall, a perception of the viewer that makes us aware of our part in the film (just like in "Mario Banana") and what we have done to fill in the gaps.

Most important of all, "Blow Job" is a watershed of queer film history. In Roy Grundmann's book, "Andy Warhol's 'Blow Job'," he argues that the film is an allegory for America's relationship with homosexuality on film at the time: hidden, practically invisible (just like the fellator in the off-screen space). Indeed, it was only in 1961 that the Hays Code permitted characters with homosexual desires in mainstream films. In 1964, "Blow Job" became a landmark film by not only implying (and accepting) a subject about which no one ever spoke, but by implying (and accepting) the depicted act as occurring between homosexuals.

Warhol would make many more films between 1964 and 1969, and all of them would challenge more conventions of filmmaking. Warhol is especially important to me for his camp and queer sensibilities, which were groundbreaking for their time. I think there is more to learn from his filmmaking, and I hope to do that soon...

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Random Musing: Andy Warhol (Part One)

For those of you, my dear readers, who follow my blog regularly or at least know my favorite films, then you have an idea of the kinds of films about which I generally write: blockbuster Hollywood pictures, Oscar-nominated or -winning films from 1927 to today, and sometimes the occasional foreign film or documentary. However, for those of you who really know me, you know that I also have a deep appreciation for avant-garde cinema. Several weeks ago, I blogged about Man Ray (an American photographer and surrealist filmmaker in Paris in the early 20th century), and today I want to talk about the American artist and filmmaker Andy Warhol, some of whose work has left a big impact on the meaning of film. You may know Warhol better for his Pop Art renditions of actress/goddess Marilyn Monroe and the Campbell's Soup Can, but Warhol has also left an impressionable influence on film culture. Using his Factory Superstars and friends, Warhol made films as short as thirty minutes or as long as eight hours about his subjects. What I want to analyze today is what the questions posed by his films have done to change the way we think about film as an art...



The first film Andy Warhol ever made was in 1963; it was a film called "Sleep." The subject of the film, a young stockbroker and good friend of Warhol named John Giorno, was interviewed in 2002 by London's "The Guardian" about "Sleep," and his narrative offers to us some interesting insight as to why Warhol became a filmmaker:

We used to go to Jonas Mekas' Film-makers' Cooperative in 1962 to watch these underground films. Andy saw them and said, "Why doesn't somebody make a beautiful film?" So he did. On Memorial Day weekend in 1963 we went away for a few days and I woke up in the night to find him staring at me - he took a lot of speed in those days. That's where the idea for the movie came from - he was looking for a visual image and it just happened to be me. He said to me on the way home: "Would you like to be a movie star?" "Of course," I said, "I want to be just like Marilyn Monroe." He didn't really know what he was doing; it was his first movie. We made it with a 16mm Bolex in my apartment but had to reshoot it a month later. The film jumped every 20 seconds as Andy rewound it. The second shoot was more successful but he didn't know what to do with it for almost a year. The news that Warhol had made a movie triggered massive amounts of publicity. It was absurd - he was on the cover of Film Culture and Harper's Bazaar before the movie was finished! In the end, 99% of the footage didn't get used; he just looped together a few shots and it came out six hours long.

Frankly, Andy Warhol made a six-hour movie about a guy sleeping. Clearly, the response to the film was 99% because of people's fascination with the famous artist.

However, what does "Sleep" even mean to us as students of film? Because Warhol is filming his friend snoozing away, it might as well be a home movie. But what distinguishes his film from Dad's home movies of the family on vacation in Orlando, Florida? I think it is because it utilizes the concept of the scientific camera. Warhol was definitely not the first person to ever use the camera in this way (Theodor Dreiser's 1928 "The Passion of Joan of Arc" comes to mind), this way of essentially placing a microscope over a person and studying him or her. But Warhol's film is ambiguous in its genre: is it a narrative film or a documentary? This might be where Warhol breaks ground―after all, a film such as "Sleep" definitely challenges many conventions that make up the way we think about film (and what it means to be a film, in general). We expect most films to have a narrative, and we do not expect a film to last more than two, maybe three, hours. Instead, we are presented with six hours of a pseudo-documentary of a man doing something we do every day. (It should be noted, though, that the six-hour length of "Sleep" probably has something to do with Warhol being on speed at the time; on drugs, time means nothing anymore.) By calling into question our expectations of film, we have learned something from "Sleep."

But the question remains: What kind of film is "Sleep"? There is no wrong answer. The film could be a narrative film in which a man is sleeping, or it could be a documentary of a man who is sleeping. But does it matter that we cannot fit "Sleep" into a box with a label?

In addition, "Sleep" begs the question of if it is art or not. Some people will say "no," just as they did to Marcel Duchamp's "The Fountain" in 1917. Others will say "yes," citing how Warhol has challenged our standards for what makes a film a film (and arguing that "Sleep" is a film, too). Again, there is no wrong answer.

But his work eventually challenges more than we expect. Around the 3:50 mark of the clip I posted (which still lacks the other nearly five hours and fifty minutes of "Sleep"), we see the sexuality of Warhol come out through the camera. Warhol lingers on Giorno's handsome face for some time, and then a shot of Giorno's sensual neck and chest runs on for several minutes. At the 7:36 mark, we see an ambiguous shape... But in the film's final shot, we discover that we have been gazing on his buttocks. Guess what? "Sleep" is actually a queer film. In this way, Warhol turns another convention on its head―the male gaze in film. The male gaze generally objectifies the female, at least in classic Hollywood, when everything was "boy + girl." However, Warhol, who was an openly gay man, homoerotically objectifies another man and makes no big deal about it (while mainstream films of the time were just barely being able to do more than "imply" things under the Hays Code). Essentially, Warhol topples the idea of the heteronormative male gaze with his first film.

And so Warhol will go on to treat more subjects similarly, challenging more conventions of filmmaking.

There is more to come, dear reader, in our study of Andy Warhol, filmmaker. Stay tuned.

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Random Musing: Alice in Wonderland (2010)

On March 5, 2010, director Tim Burton (whose work I have really come to admire more than ever) will release his newest fantasy feature in theaters, a remake of "Alice in Wonderland," based on the Lewis Carroll novels "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking-Glass." According to Wikipedia, the film will use a technique combining live action, motion capture technology and stop motion and will be released in Disney Digital 3-D and IMAX 3-D. Only today have I come upon brand-new, just-released publicity stills for the film! ("U.S.A. Today" has them; click here to see them.) These stills feature a nearly unrecognizable Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter, Anne Hathaway as the White Queen, Mia Wasikowska as Alice, and my personal favorite (as you can tell from the photo that accompanies this blog), Helena Bonham-Carter as a spot-on Red Queen. Is this not exciting? I was hesitant at first about the idea of yet another film adaptation of "Alice in Wonderland," but I think Tim Burton will bewilder us as never before...

*No need to press "Read More." Thank you.*

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