Film, Literature, & the Human Condition

The short film Vincent, created by Tim Burton while he was a conceptual artist for Disney, is perfection. It must be obvious, despite its overtly dramatic and macabre nature,  that this is a highly autobiographical work. Not autobiographical in events, I don’t believe Tim Burton has dipped his aunt in boiling wax, but autobiographical in feelings. Because of this, the film is universal and speaks to all of us whether we realize it or not. For some, it may take a stretch to recognize the base similarities between what Vincent (a.k.a. Tim Burton) feels and what every other person on this planet will experience more often than they choose to acknowledge. I am of course referring to our feelings of alienation from the external world. Vincent finds solace in his imagination, fueled by the baroque of Vincent Price and Edgar Allan Poe. He embraces madness and torment as a kind of catharsis. And watching Burton’s film should give us a certain cathartic release. However, it might be presumptuous to believe everybody will respond to it the same way I have. For all intents and purposes, movies are like Rorschach tests. It would be particularly interesting to gage different people’s reactions to Vincent. Regardless, the title character struggles through considerably intense bouts of darkness and gloom, and at the center of his melancholy lies a very thoughtful examination of loneliness and isolation. (continue reading…)

When Star Wars was released back in 1977, it unleashed a cultural phenomenon, one that only cultivated with the release of its two sequels. Over the years, these films have achieved a level of recognition both for the breadth of its popularity and for its cinematic brilliance. To some people, the Star Wars universe transcends beyond movies. I am one of those people, but not in the sense you may think. If you tried to start a conversation with me about the different makes of starships or models of lightsabers, my expression would turn into a chasm of obliviousness. My favorite of the original trilogy of movies is The Empire Strikes Back, because it most deeply explores the reason I am drawn to this world, going into a profound meditation about some of the themes that were introduced in the first film. It begins exploring the mystery and power of the Force. George Lucas only gives us vague impressions of what the Force is exactly. It could be a religion judging by the way both the Jedi and Sith lead their lives in accordance to it, but the Force is not something they worship. It is created by life, not the creator of life. It is closer to philosophy, but there is still an inherent spiritual element that elevates it to something more. Whatever the Force may be, in the space of three movies, it made a simple, yet powerful statement about existence, that the universe thrives on a conflict between two equally matched spiritual forces, one good, the other evil. And we need to pick a side. (continue reading…)

When I managed to stumble across a copy of the screenplay for The Matrix Reloaded, I intended to merely sift through it. I wound up reading the whole thing in one sitting, forgetting I had even seen any of the movies and in a way, I really hadn’t. I admit, I watched the entire Matrix trilogy with only a minuscule understanding of what was happening. I followed the narrative, cared about the characters, and was obviously blown away by the cinematic scope and impeccable craft of these films, but I say minuscule because I had essentially reduced the movies to simple pop entertainment. After reading the Wachowskis’ words on paper, it became one of the greatest things I had ever read and I rewatched all three movie with a higher appreciation for what it was they set out to accomplish. The Matrix trilogy is a work of complex literature that deserves to have papers written on it and be discussed in institutions of higher learning. While the films stand on their own and create a unique set of philosophical questions for its universe, the themes are very relevant, deriving inspiration from modern philosophy like Simulacra and Simulation by Jean Baudrillard to older works such as Plato’s Republic. But it’s the heart of movies, the theme of fate vs. free will, and how the Wachowski’s discuss it that elevates the world of The Matrix to something grander. From the allegories to the religious, philosophical, and mythological references, the Matrix trilogy is more than just a set of sci-fi action films, it’s a source of intellectual stimulation that builds and builds on its ideas until the spacetime continuum threatens to collapse in on itself. (continue reading…)

Clint Eastwood is the ultimate polymath of the filmmaking world. He started as an actor, but slowly evolved into a director, then a producer, then a film composer, and on the title song of his film, Gran Torino, he sings. He’s pushing 80 years old and shows no signs of slowing. Judging from his demeanor in Gran Torino when his family presents him with the prospect of a nursing home, I imagine merely uttering the term senior citizen in his proximity would be hazardous. While I think other artists his age would rather spend their time playing the grandfatherly figure in a lighthearted comedy or direct a cliched Bucket List kind of movie, Eastwood continues to dredge through brooding existentialism. Since the start of his career, he has been apt at exploring the darker sides of human nature. Most of the characters he’s played are antiheroes or at least anti-establishment, and the characters put under his directorial microscope have their most flawed attributes showcased. The interesting thing about Clint Eastwood’s films is in the way he chooses to see people as individuals. While he has examined characters of diverse cultural backgrounds, he does not ascribe their behavior to anything but who they uniquely are, not ethnically, but as a person. Like I said, the aim of his art is to dissect human nature, trimming away everything, all excuses for a character’s immorality, until there’s nothing left to speak for it except their own human integrity. (continue reading…)

I was reading A Scanner Darkly, the first book Philip K. Dick claimed to have soberly written, and I thought how scary it would be to exist as a person in his universe. Then again, if I was part of his universe, I’d probably be a confused drug addict. Dick is my favorite science fiction writer because the characters are so interesting. Most often, in sci-fi literature, the characters are fully drawn, but seem only to exist as a building tool for the plot. There is hardly a plot in a Philip K. Dick short story or novel. Usually the narrator is completely unreliable, maintaining a sort of vicissitude that constantly puts the credibility of everything we’ve just read into question. I don’t think he was a writer that made outlines or saw the entire story clear in his head before writing it. It was as if he knew the characters, but he himself was curious to see what would happen to them. Every book he wrote before 1970 was under the influence of amphetamines, perhaps to pull the story from a faculty he had no direct access to: his subconscious. Considering that, I started noticing the similarities between Dick’s ideas and the writings of Carl Jung. The both of them seemed to be obsessed with the fragile construction of personal identity. (continue reading…)

In July of 2009, Michael Mann’s newest film, Public Enemies, will be released starring Johnny Depp as John Dillinger. What a sentence that is. When some people think of Michael Mann they immediately get a picture of excess in style. This is a total misconception, although his film adaptation of Miami Vice serves as perfect evidence for that argument. I don’t believe Public Enemies will have the same problems as Miami Vice since the iconic status of John Dillinger and Melvin Purvis most certainly overtakes that of Crockett and Tubbs. We can be rest assured that Enemies is a return to the richly thematic world of Michael Mann as experienced in Heat. A central idea Mann runs with in his movies is that each person is a universe unto himself. An individual is all alone behind their eyes, alone with their thoughts, and alone in their journey through existence. In Heat we get two characters who are polar opposites: one is a criminal and one is the cop chasing him. The singular connection they share is each other, likewise it is very difficult for either of them to function in the world without consideration to what the other is up to. Robert De Niro’s character understands this very well, which is why he chooses to maintain a very dogmatic way of life. Al Pacino, on the other hand, does not possess the same rigidity and allows himself to invest emotions very explosively. He can handle the consequences because he is used to living that way. Robert De Niro’s character is the more interesting of the two, and when he turns weak enough to invest his emotions, even in just a minor capacity,  it throws his entire constitution out of whack and makes him vulnerable. And in the world of Michael Mann, where fate is rendered through a system of cause and effect in direct control of the characters, vulnerability is very dangerous. (continue reading…)

Whenever comedians go serious, they tend to give us among the greatest of dramatic performances. Three names in particular come to mind: Jamie Foxx, Jim Carrey, and Robin Williams. There is a very intense vulnerability in all comedians. It’s an important quality because the greatest comedy is raw, often observational about very awkward and uncomfortable truths. To make us laugh about these things, an individual has to put themselves on the line, to be willing to risk making a fool of oneself. Many of us know what it feels like to be embarrassed, especially in front of a large group of people. It’s usually a traumatic experience and the average person may recoil from ever putting themselves into similar circumstances for quite some time, if ever again. A comedian isn’t perfect overnight. A comedian isn’t perfect at all. To get up on stage and tap into the uncouth segments of an entire audience of people’s personality takes years of practice and failure. Comedians aren’t ordinary people. They need a strong will to fight through all the hopelessness and self-doubt, and these kinds of experiences and feelings, and a comedian’s willingness to confront these feelings head on in an attempt to stave them off, must bring them to a deeper, more intimate understanding of oneself. So it’s no doubt comedians are geniuses of the acting craft. Acting isn’t just about doing an impersonation of a character, it’s about being a translator for the character’s emotions. Who better equipped to make the examination of a personality than those of whom are already experts in the darker side of human nature? (continue reading…)

In 2009 comes Inglourious Basterds (yes it’s supposed to be spelled with an ‘ou’ and an ‘e’), the newest film from Quentin Tarantino. It has come to be that whenever Tarantino releases a film, it is an event of sorts. Our last foray into his universe was the 2007 release of Death Proof, the second half of the Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino homage to the heyday of self-proclaimed sleaze cinema. Tarantino appears to be obsessed with the nostalgic resonance of exploitation films, from scratched film stock to crackling cheap sound, but his ideas and most certainly his filmmaking sensibilities are uniquely ingenious and transcend the quality of the 70s genre. The elements from them most heavily imbued into Tarantino’s work is the hard edged grittiness and fast paced vitality of that kind of moviemaking. Combined with his own trademarks of quirky storytelling, unique characters, and profanely articulate dialogue, witnessing Tarantino’s tapestry gives the viewer a rhapsodic connection to the material that wholly accentuates his love for movies and creating them to the point that the explosive visuals and soundtrack give us an almost synesthetic sense of being able to smell the celluloid. Now I won’t tell you how, but I managed to come across a copy of his screenplay for Inglourious Basterds and I am ecstatic to say it will be nothing but sheer titillation for fans of Spaghetti Westerns, French New Wave cinema, Bunch-Of-Guys-On-A-Mission movies, Historical War films, and of course, a category all unto himself, Quentin Tarantino. (continue reading…)

The Sopranos is the greatest show in television history. To even regard it as merely a television show does not do it justice. Everyone who’s seen even one episode knows this. The entire series is collectively a masterpiece of the human condition. It has made us afraid, laugh, cry, and ponder, not all at the same time, but in intermittent periods throughout our glimpse into the lives of these characters. In that sense, it is the closest representation to real life as can be, simultaneously switching gears between the banality of nothingness to the harrowing consequences of investing emotions into anything. Despite its exploration of characters whose existences are far more exciting than the average person, it manages to speak to our deepest personal concerns. Because of this, The Sopranos is like a feeding ground for discussions about a wide variety of subjects. A lot of people may think it’s silly, but throughout the show’s entire run, one character in particular sat with me for a long time. Not Tony Soprano himself or his gold-digging wife Carmella.  No, it was Gloria Trillo, the complicated saleswoman whom Tony had an affair with. She was reduced to a mistress even though she truly loved him. Tony himself began to recognize this and started reciprocating her sentiments, but her emotional turbulence eventually drove him away. Watching Gloria Trillo’s final moments is very difficult. She was a minor supporting character only in a few episodes, but the writers used her as a means to most prominently flex the show’s acute sense of the failure of human relations and aspirations that is at once cruel and deeply compassionate. (continue reading…)

What is happiness? What is truth? In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, happiness seems to be the gratification of an individual’s desires. You could say the gratification of an individual’s carnal desires. Food, sex, drugs, nice clothes, consumer items. Huxley deals with truth in a more complicated manner. When I say truth, I mean human truth. I mean love, friendship, and personal connections. Totalitarianism is a subject that has been heavily explored in literature and film, but Brave New World takes a different perspective than most works. In this universe, information is not concealed from society, culture is not controlled, and sexuality is not repressed. Here, it’s more as if individuals volunteer their rights in exchange for pleasure. They are reduced to passivity and egoism, preoccupied with such trivial lives that they neglect to recognize human truth. There is one character, named John, who has grown up outside the society of Brave New World. Likewise, he finds it difficult to fit in when he returns. His worldview is based on his knowledge of Shakespeare plays. He sees the humanity in them so he knows human truth, exemplified by his love for the character Lenina. However, she is unable to reciprocate his affections having been raised in this place. This epitomizes the conflict at hand, between Lenina’s desire for sex and John’s desire for love, between happiness and truth. (continue reading…)