Foreign Film Review - The 400 Blows

In Francois Truffaut’s heartfelt 1959 film The 400 Blows, Antione Doinel is an adolescent boy in a spot of trouble. Although most of his problems aren’t his own, he is a misunderstood kid who isn’t quite sure how to externalize his feelings. A series of unfortunate and events transpire over the course of the film, but Truffaut isn’t really concerned with that. Instead, just like Antione himself, the film is shy and indirect about what it wants the viewer to perceive within its framed images. The camera embodies a childlike wonder and captivation on the most unusual details. By bringing us into the life and mind of this unsettled boy, Truffaut is capturing the essence of innocent, adventurous young minds being brought up in a cold and confining modern environment. In a house with paper-thin walls filled with negligence and untamed egos tearing about, one person’s problem soon become’s the whole family’s problem, and Antione is left no choice but to go along with a fate that he never asked for. As he achieves escape and turns to look at the audience with desperate eyes, the only question to be asked is, “Where do we go from here?”

The film’s opening credits have a very unique effect on the viewer. The hand-held camera riding along with the car is indicative of a first-person perspective, a view of the city from street level. It immediately gives a sense of place, and grounds the viewer in this world as it travels by them at speed. At the same time, the camera never focuses on any one scene with much clarity, so although we know we are in Paris, France, it is a distorted view that creates an uneasy feeling, almost like being lost in the city, in the world. The silhouette and shadow of the Eiffel Tower is overwhelming and gives a sense of foreboding. This imagery, combined with the unsettling soundtrack, does a lot to lend the film a melancholy feeling.

The soundtrack is something that immediately stood out to me once the film began, and it remained a notable constant throughout the film’s duration. Truffaut’s choice of music is very effective, but it embodies so many emotions in a simple progression of chords. It starts off light and lilting, like a playful music box. But, interspersed within this seemingly joyful soundscape, there are brief moments of discordant clarity which is jarring to the viewer and brings them back into the real world, away from that sense of wonder that the city provides. This could be representative of Antione’s plight over the course of the film, a reflection of his natural childhood innocence at odds with the uncaring cruelty of the adult world.

The film begins in the classroom of a boy’s school in Paris, France. They are passing around a racy pin-up of a woman behind the teacher’s back. This shows right off the bat that the children of this film are not interested in the realities of the world, but in the playful pretend that they must participate in outside the peripheral view of authoritative eyes. The opening scenes of Antione’s punishment are intended to show that he is in constant conflict with authority. The classroom represents the system of rules, a sense of order and control. Antione obviously does not fit well into this type of environment. The other boys are just as bad, but he has the unfortunate circumstance of getting caught.

At home, the audience sees that Antione spends a lot of time by himself, as both of his parents aren’t home quite a bit of the time. He makes a characterizing gesture in this scene, where he turns to the curtains in the window and wipes his dirty hands on them. He then turns to the mantle and steals money from underneath it. Antione, it seems, is a smart boy after all, just not in the way that society seems to expect or appreciate from him. Life in this dingy apartment has him in a constant state of rebellion, whether he intends for it to be seen that way or not. He just wants to enjoy the pleasures that his world offers, no matter the cost.

A striking scene in particular is when Antione is in the spinning room. The dizzying scene works well to capture Antione’s place in the world, as he spins ceaselessly around, losing the definition of faces in the world around him as he spirals out of control. The scene itself is innocent enough on its own, but in the larger context of the film, it lends a decidedly uneasy feeling to what should be just a good time.

Another interesting scene is one where Antione shows up in school after a leave of absence, and lies about his mother’s death in order to gain the sympathy of his overbearing teacher. It works for a little while, but it isn’t long before he finds himself being punished again, and physically slapped by his father for his misdeeds. The interesting thing about this scene is that Antione barely hesitates before lying. It shows just how out of touch he is, and how little he cares for his life at home. Perhaps it could be taken as Antione feeling that his idea of his mother might as well be as good as dead, anyway. This, in contrast to the scene where Antione and his family all run out to the movies, is very natural and disturbing at the same time. They all have their own worries and issues, but they cast them aside for a night on the town. They go to see a movie, the ultimate form of escapism for people at the time. By the time they return home, everything seems to be all right. This scene seems very out of place, though believable at the same time. Everyone seeks escape now and then, though it does little to solve anything. And this particular instance is no different in that regard.

Lastly, there are three striking shots that I want to mention. The first is the scene is with the crowd of children watching the puppet show. This scene implies a similar sense of escapism, but it instead externalizes the emotions on the children’s faces. Their expressions are very impacting, showing a full range of emotions from fear, to sadness, to delight as the story played itself out. It really captures that feeling of innocence that all children have. The second shot is after Antione is jailed. There is a brief, slow dolly shot rounding the corner of a hallway and peering down at the menacing backlit frame of the prison guard. From the height of this shot, it can be assumed that this is Antione’s view, or that of a child in over his head in the adult world. The final shot is after Antione escapes detention camp, and the camera follows alongside him as he runs for seemingly miles and miles to the beach. Unlike much of the film, this scene has no music laid over it. The only audio to be heard in this scene is that of the ambient nature of the farmland, the sounds of shoes on pavement, and Antione’s breathing as he flees for his life.

The final shot on the beach in representative of the film’s entire motif. Antione is a child out of place in the world. All he wants to do is escape, and once he achieves that goal, there is nowhere left for him to turn, except to the camera with his desperate, longing eyes.

Dino-Score: 4/5

Raising Rebecca: Parallels and Departures

Two films were made in very different parts of the world in very different time periods. It is hardly likely that either of them would be seen or discussed together at all, and yet this essay will connect the two in many ways, despite their superficial differences. These two films - Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 film, Rebecca, and Yimou Zhang’s 1991 drama, Raise the Red Lantern - cover a lot of similar ground symbolically. They both center around situations where a young woman gets in over her head when brought into a man’s world. What is most interesting, though, is how different Hitchcock’s film appears when viewed through the directorial lense of Zhang’s picture.

In Yimou Zhang’s epic realization of a young woman’s struggle with her role in society in 1920’s China, Songlian is a woman out of time and out of place. She is brought into a situation where she is forced to marry the lord of a powerful family. Not only that, but she will be his fourth wife. Not only is she removed from her old life, but she can no longer return to that way of living, either. Once she has passed through the walls and into the seemingly labyrinthian corridors of the master’s grand palace, it becomes evident that she can never leave, even if she wants to. There are new rules here. The estate is world all its own, with its own laws and antiquated rituals.

In Hitchcock’s thrilling psychological drama, the female protagonist is very much in the same way. She is first introduced as a “paid companion” for Mrs. Van Hopper. She is without a father figure, essentially working day-to-day as a convenience for her boss. She is eventually brought into the life Maxim De Winter. Once married, they go away to Manderlay, a grand estate by the sea, and she becomes his second wife. The film only departs from this setting once during the film, and only briefly. Both of these films share similar motifs, but it goes much deeper than what can be seen on the surface.

When the audience is first introduced to Songlian, she comes across as any woman of modern society might. She is headstrong and independent, taking it upon herself to make her way down the road so many miles with her bags without any assistance. It could be reasoned that the implication of this scene is to show how, while is not lost, she has been essentially “forgotten” by the modern world as she travels the road alone. With her father gone, she has only herself to rely on, and she embraces this notion early on. That is, until she arrives at the master’s palace.

The female protagonist of Rebecca is also lacking identity during the film’s first act. She seems to be nearly opposite that of Songlian, going and doing whatever she is told. She comes across as a character which lacks ambition and any sense of personality. That is, until she meets Maxim. She is not identified by any name until they are married and she becomes Mrs. De Winter, or rather, “The Second Mrs. De Winter.” The same goes for Songlian, as she doesn’t have any identity in the film besides that of “The Fourth Mistress.”

One thing that is instantly noticeable in Raise the Red Lantern - if the viewer has a sharp eye - is that once the camera enters the master’s estate with Songlian, it never again leaves the walls. It never gives the audience a view of the outside world. Even if it is never made apparent at the outset, this visual dynamic becomes clear by the end of the film and its final shot. Still, it is striking how the director and the cinematographer are able to convey emotional context through color cues in the environment. Everything within the estate walls is very bleak and grey, with no flourishes to speak of, save for the red lanterns that are used to show favor and represent all positive energy within this isolated society. It becomes evident very quickly that there is very little of it. This is very close to mirroring a similar visual choice in Rebecca, as well. After the opening half-hour, the film remains set at Manderlay, only taking brief excursions to the edge of the estate, but never beyond it, until the film’s conclusion. In both films, the female protagonist is brought into a man’s world, under his supervision and his rules. In assuming their newfound titles of “Fourth Mistress,” and “Mrs. De Winter,” they threaten to lose their original identities in the realm of male power and control.

Another striking thing about the look of Red Lantern is its unwavering use of symmetry. Most of the shots in the film are composed in such a way that they could be split down the middle and look nearly identical on either side. This is an interesting visual aspect to the film, because while the film is quite complex in terms of plot and character, the film is composed on a very simplistic level. It makes sense to interpret the constant use of visual symmetry as implicating an overwhelming idea of order and control in Songlian’s new environment. While she herself is obviously of a less orderly upbringing, she must conform to this new situation in order to thrive. The conflict between free will and bending to societal norms is the true conflict of the film, and Songlian’s sanity ends up paying the price for her struggles and irresponsible ways. The final shot of the film puts this idea into context perfectly, as she paces in circles all disheveled and broken from the realization of her predicament, and the life she will be forced to live out for the rest of her days. Rebecca reinforces these themes of symmetry, as well. In the film’s opening sequence, Mrs. De Winter’s voice speaks the line, “Time could not wither away the symmetry of these walls.” Now, on initial viewing, this might strike viewers as a nostalgic view. However, by the end of the film, it gains more sinister interpretations. That idealized view of symmetry is soon proved to be poorly founded, as the nightmare of Manderlay is revealed. It takes on a similar quality to the master’s estate in Raise the Red Lantern. They both represent the power and control over the weak.

The film’s other heavy-handed use of visual design is in the use of the red lanterns. They are a simple of positivity and hope and compassion. They represent all that is good in the world. And yet, they can be snuffed out with a single word from the master’s mouth. The mistress’ servant, Yan’er, lives a poor and unfulfilling life at the estate. Her place there is to be at their very beck and call, and she grows jealous of Songlian’s presence. In stealing the red lanterns and placing them in her own home, she defies the recognized status on these grounds, and sees herself as having a chance at being a mistress herself, so that she can get revenge on the ladies who push her around and treat her like dirt. When Songlian finds out her secret, she takes pity on her, and allows her to keep the lanterns. This comes back with a vengeance later on in the film, and Yan’er dies for her belief in the power of what the red lanterns represent. It was all she had to hold on to in the cold and cruel world of the master’s estate. This character motif is also reflected in Rebecca, as the creepy servant Mrs. Danvers. Though she comes across as villainous at first, her story becomes tragic as she goes mad trying to ensure the legacy of the original Mrs. De Winter. When she can no longer hold on to her version of the truth, she burns herself alive along with the Manderlay estate. This is an interesting dichotomy, because while one chooses to be engulfed by flames, the other freezes to death in the cold.

Another interesting visual choice made by director Yimou Zhang is to constantly keep the master’s face hidden from view. This could be seen as one of the most important aspects of the film, and what it in turn conveys about the choice of setting and the roles of the women within this culture. Even though the film takes place in the twentieth century, all evidence of this falls away within the walls of the estate. There are cars and color and life outside, but not here in this place. Nowhere is this implication more threatening than when the master is present within the frame. His face is always either veiled or facing away from the camera, so as not to give a clear idea of who the man is, merely that he is a man in power with control over everything that goes on. He is an almost omnipotent force in the film, because he is rarely present, but the mention of his presence is enough to keep everyone in line. All of the rules and laws and structure put in place by this man is meant to keep himself in that position of power, and to keep the people in fear of what he might do, should he be defied.

Nowhere is this sinister implication more present than in the series of incidents with Songlian’s pregnancy and the Third Mistress’s affair with the doctor. Songlian’s pregnancy is a power play amongst the other mistresses of the estate, to show that she has value and control over her master’s will. Her plan falls apart, however, when it is revealed that her pregnancy is indeed a false one, and she is severely shamed and punished for it. Her lanterns are covered, and the light of hope in the world is essentially snuffed out. The master’s longing for a son to carry on his power and legacy takes precedent over any well-being for these woman that he keeps in his company. They are only a means to an end, and any favor they win with is only temporary in the grand scheme of things.

It becomes clear to Songlian that her life in this place is a futile one, once the Third Mistress is murdered for committing adultery with Dr. Gao. It is also somewhat evident that her punishment is for leaving the premises, not just the affair. These dual offenses are for some reason grounds for murder, and it is in this moment that Songlian’s sanity begins to fade. She is indirectly responsible for the fate of another, and the guilt of the situation is too much for her mind to bear. Although it is stated by the other mistresses that he has gone mad, it is made apparent that Songlian is a perfectly sane young woman living in a cruel and insane world. It is no place for a woman such as herself, and she cannot leave, no matter how much she wants to. This tragic ending could be seen as an exposure and indictment of China’s outdated culture in a forward-moving world.

While Zhang’s film chooses to hide the master’s face as an indictment of men’s power and authority in China, Hitchcock’s film takes a more sympathetic view towards its male protagonist. While Maxim remains a figure of strength, he also is viewed as very culpable due to his relationship with Rebecca. He shares many of the same traits with the Master in Red Lantern, but in giving him a more human side, he becomes easier to forgive. This is where the two films show their strongest differences - in their portrayal of men. 

The reason for this most likely lies in the time period and cultures in which they were produced. They are a reflection of their times and society. Rebecca is the more sympathetic of the two, being produced near the end of the Golden Age of cinema. Although the woman is indeed to main protagonist, there is still a sense of sympathy and tragedy for her love interest, despite his emotionally antagonistic ways. Raise the Red Lantern was produced in the postmodern time of the 1990s, so it is two generations beyond that of Hitchcock’s classic. As such, it has taken on a much more cynical view of the world and the injustices in it, and makes no excuses when it comes to its realistic portrayals of people. Although both films are very different in their views on societal norms and gender roles and how they are interpreted by audiences, they share a lot of similar motifs and themes.

An Intellectual Carrot: A Tale of Two Things

It is difficult to know where to begin when comparing two Things. No, really. That capitalization is not an accident. For all intents and purposes, it is this reviewer’s goal to effectively compare and contrast two films that, while sharing similar titles and premises, are very different films inhabiting two separate genres. First, there is the “classic” original film, the 1951 RKO Picture, The Thing From Another World, directed by Christian Nyby and starring James Arness as the Thing. Following this is director John Carpenter’s 1982 “remake,” titled simply, The Thing, starring Kurt Russell and Keith David. The word remake is put in quotes because, as mentioned before, they are very different versions of the same story. Although they share a common source, they are two very different films.

Before moving forward, it is important to first understand where both of these films drew their inspiration. The first film claims to be an adaptation of the John W. Campbell novella, “Who Goes There?” first published in 1948. It is difficult to see how this could be, because the RKO picture shares little with the story outside of a snowy setting and an otherworldly creature. There are no shared character names or places. Even the description of the creature in the story is not at all like that of the thing played by James Arness. John Carpenter’s version, however, remains faithful to the source material, keeping names and the tense atmosphere from the novella.

The Thing From Another World (1951)

A majority of the differences between the two films can be attributed to the fact that they were made in very disparate eras of film. Just over thirty years apart from each other, these films are able to demonstrate just how much changed after the MPAA abandoned trying to enforce the Production Code in the late 1960s. This is most evident in looking back on the 1951 adaptation, which struggles to work as a film at all under so many content restrictions.

Therefore, it makes sense that so many changes would have to made to the story to keep in line with the then strictly-enforced Production Code. There is hardly any violence to speak of, save for some scenes of animal cruelty and cheesy effects that bring about the monster’s demise. Not a single human member of the cast meets their end, and good wins out over evil in the end. There is also a distinct lack of urgency to the proceedings, which makes the film feel like it drags on much longer than it needs to. The Thing itself isn’t even fully revealed until an hour into the film, and even then, there are a scant three scenes that fully show Arness in all his made-up glory.

Besides the lack of terror and violence, there are other ways in which the RKO picture is a reflection of the time it was made in. There is a strong military presence, and an overwhelming sense of cold-war paranoia. A UFO falls out of the sky, and the general immediately orders our hero, Captain Hendry, to meet up with the scientists in the arctic and go check it out. There are hyperbolic references to the bible, such as reporter Ned Scott’s statement, “This is the biggest historical event since the parting of the Red Sea,” and the ever-present cheesy theremin music in an attempt to arouse feelings of discomfort and fear. There are two women present in the film. One of them is a non-speaking role, only on screen for barely a minute, while the other is the Captain’s love interest, and only shows up on screen when it seems appropriate to remind the audience that, yes, our hero is indeed human, and he is making sure that our women our safe from harm. Not that there was really ever that much of a threat to begin with, but still. They barely share one slightly hidden kiss beyond their playful flirtations. All the same, there are moments in the movie where everyone seems to forget that there’s an alien monster on the loose. 

The biggest offender, though, is the film’s anti-climax, in which the Thing is easily defeated, and then everyone sits down to relax over a pot of coffee. Add to that the final words of the film, “Keep watching the skies. Look everywhere. Always be watching,” and you have a real gem indicative of its time period. One would suppose it is classic in that sense, but the movie fails to bring about any real sense of dread or urgency to the proceedings. Finally, the film is laughably dismissive of science and reason. The one scientist who goes out of his way to inform our heroes (and the audience) that, “knowledge is more important than life,” and, “there are no enemies in science,” is dismissed by the whole crew, and later wounded by the Thing with a smack to the face. It is essentially saying that it is not worth trying to understand or reason with others, and that violence is the only way to effectively defend ourselves. It is strange to see such things play out on the screen.

John Carpenter's The Thing (1982)

Now, onward to John Carpenter’s superior interpretation of Campbell’s novella. This film is literally polar opposite from it’s predecessor, being set in Antarctica, rather than north of Anchorage, Alaska. Staying true to the source material, there are no military present, only the scientists and researchers. There are no women present in the film, either, which I suppose could go either way when trying to determine believability. I’m sure there are plenty of women scientists in the Antarctic. It would make sense to assume that Carpenter opted to leave women out of this picture to get away from the distracting love interest present in the older film.

The theme of paranoia remains, though it is not of the cold-war brand. Sure, the war was still on at this time in 1982, but it wasn’t as clearly defined as it was 30 years prior. Carpenter’s film takes on a much more existentialist, even nihilistic view on this, making any of the characters fair game to being mistrusted or killed by the extraterrestrial menace. The effects are also much more engaging, though that can be attributed to technological progress in make-up and animatronic effects.

The hero of the novella, MacReady, returns as the hero of this film, as do Blair and the others. And just like the original story, the Thing itself is only revealed to the audience in bits and pieces, never shown full-on, in order to keep the tension and interests high. Not to mention that the Thing is a near constant presence throughout the film, keeping everyone on their toes at all times. Adding to that is the theme that nobody in the facility can be trusted on their own, and the acting among the characters is electrifying, unlike the wooden and unenthusiastic heroes of the older film.

Finally, there is film’s conclusion. Whereas everyone survived the ordeal in the 1951 film, all but two of the men at the research facility are left. They have blown up the whole base in an effort to destroy the monster, and there’s nothing left to do but share a bottle of booze and watch it burn. The film fades out and the credits roll, leaving the audience with a sense of hopelessness, unsure if MacReady and Childs will make it, though it is implied that they meet their doom at the hands of the freezing Antarctic weather.

The souls of these two films are very different when held up next to each other, and this can be attributed to the Production Code, as well as the cynicism which developed over the course of the cold war. Carpenter’s film does a lot more to engage the audience, whereas the RKO “classic” picture turns out not unlike how Ned Scott describes the Thing in one scene, which that it is "an intellectual carrot." However, it is trumped in the intellectual department as well, as Carpenter’s film takes a much smarter approach to the idea of a monster movie.

Foreign Film Review - The Lives of Others

Hauptmann Gerd Weisler, as portrayed by Ulrich Muhe in Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s 2006 motion picture, The Lives of Others, is a man who thinks he is in control. From the cold open of his frigid lecture, it is made clear that he is a man who moves through the world as an electrical current moves through a closed circuit. Everything is set in place, everything is routine, everything is cold, calculated, and clear-cut to be at maximum efficiency. He is not one to slack on the job, unlike his partner, Udo, who has a tendency to doze off from time to time. It is surprising, then, to see Weisler undergo a series of profound changes, making emotionally-charged decisions, and in the end giving in to his human impulses. The film ends with its representation of Weisler in a polar-opposite position from where he began. He becomes a different man with different ideas and feelings, and an altogether different kind of human being. 

The film wants you to believe in this idea, that a man can change so drastically over so little time, because of a single semblance of love. To be perfectly frank and honest, that is just corny and altogether ridiculous for a story that sells itself as a grounded piece of storytelling, held down by the iron stakes of history. However, that is judging it on purely realistic merit, which is rarely ever fair criticism for a film that is anything but documentary. No, instead, the film presented is one of big ideas in a small space: the human mind. But not just any mind, no, it happens to be one far removed from any kind of meaningful connection, and when those two frayed ends spark together (both in the literal and metaphorical sense), the audience bears witness to a transformation unlike any other in films before. It is a fascinating thing to behold, to see it all poured out on screen like of molten lava down the side of a mountain, only in reverse. The hardened stone softens and reverts to its primal state, gurgling and hissing and slowly scorching all that it touches as it makes its way across the frigid surface. In reverting to this primitive, volatile state, Weisler loses his sense of reality, and is conflicted with himself over the desire for control. He is, after all, us.

A common thread presented in the film is one of meta-commentary on the entire concept of film, and the impact it can have on real-world expectations. In his own unique way, Weisler embodies the desires of the typical movie-going audience. He sits isolated in a dark room for extended periods of time, listening in on conversations and becoming involved in a narrative. And like any audience member, he has certain expectations as to how that narrative should play out. The key difference here is that film narrative, like pretty much all narrative in human history, has a predetermined ending and resolution. More often than not, these narrative conclusions are tailored to suit the audience’s expectations in regards to how they want things to play out. Who gets to live, who gets to die, who gets the girl, and so on. Weisler, in personally involving himself in what he believes to be such a narrative, envisions himself as the audience, and this particular story is going to play out exactly how he wants it to. Things do work somewhat according to plan for a while, as Weisler manipulates the situation to his liking, using different technological tricks and deus ex machinas to get the desired result. What he ultimately fails to realize, however, is that this is reality. And reality has no author, not even God.

The film itself is noticeably devoid of any religious imagery or connotations, and takes a considerably removed approach in letting itself play out. Donnersmarck’s direction is impeccable, as everything is where it should be. The camera is always focused on the characters and rarely, if ever, draws its attention away from the people in the scene. A mirror of the voyeuristic nature of the Weisler and his fascination with Dreyman and Sieland’s romance, the camera is always drawing the viewer’s eye to the faces on screen. In fact, it tends to linger uncomfortably long in some scenes, making the audience hesitate about whether or not to keep looking. It is in this way that the film does such a good job of drawing in the audience, and getting them to share in Weisler’s obsessions.

Weisler is seen as a plain, boring man of little interest or emotion. He wears a lot of grey, and lives in a flat, grey apartment building. His character would be wholly unremarkable if he weren’t the center of the film, but in that way, the film is also distinctive because of its unremarkable appearance due to its commitment to that sense of realism and believability in its scenes. Beyond that, however, there is nothing visually compelling about the look of the film. It is all fairly standard work.

The same can be said of the acting, with the exception of Muhe as Weisler. He is wholly convincing as a robotic man, removed from reality and human emotional perception as the Secret Police have trained him to be. He is cold and ruthless, with a hint of vulnerability, and he doesn’t have to say a word to convey that idea to the audience. There’s is only a grim scowl with a glimmer in his bright blue eyes.

The single visual flourish that the film possesses comes in the form of the red ink, which Dreyman is forced to type with in order to not raise suspicion about the content of the script. “Harder to trace,” is believed to be the reasoning behind this decision. However, the red ink could also be seen as a symbol of the blood of the people, and their desire to be free from the GDR’s tyranny in the form of the Secret Police. In the film’s climactic scene, it could hardly be seen as coincidence that Sieland’s blood is spilt on the street. It was a needless sacrifice brought about by the need to free themselves from the GDR’s watchful eye. That, and the ink stains on both Weisler and Dreyman’s fingers. The blood is indeed on both their hands, but each in his own way.

Returning to the theme of narrative the omnipresent author, the bookended scenes with the stage plays both touch on the death of Arthur. It is never made clear who Arthur is, but the fact that it is presented twice both at the beginning and end of the film suggests some deeper meaning. It could be said that it is a form of word-play, as the name Arthur, spoken in German, sounds like “auteur,” or, “author.” In this sense, when they say that, “Arthur is dead,” it gives an implication that the author is dead. The author of this world is no longer alive, and neither is fate. 

There is no predetermined destination for people in this life, and it is best for humanity to move on from this fact and accept it as truth. To deny this reality is to hurt the ones we care about, and that is a lesson that Weisler learned the hard way. In his desperation for control, to be the author to his own narrative, to mess with the lives of others, he brought an end to what he cared for most.

Dino-Score: 4/5

Classic Film Review - Lawrence of Arabia

T.E. Lawrence, as portrayed in David Lean’s 1962 epic motion picture, Lawrence of Arabia, is a man of conflicted interest. He is a kind of man that has no qualms about displaying his emotions on his face and making his motives well known when he chooses to act. He wears his internal conflict externally, and although that is primarily a testament to Peter O’Toole’s magnificent portrayal of the man, it is also a reflection of the director’s attitude toward the controversial figure himself and the personality of the film. By following his exploits while assisting the Arab rebels in fighting the Turks, the film covers a lot of ground, both physically and within the mind of Lawrence himself. It is a story about a man’s internal conflict brought out into the external world, and the toll it takes on his mind. At the same time, it is also about the ego that develops out of this conflict, and how Lawrence comes to believe the myth that the Arabs have constructed for him. He embraces his role (and robes) wholeheartedly and falls from grace in the end because of his mistake. Ultimately, though, the film just as conflicted about its ideals as Lawrence himself. It gives equal treatment and consideration to all aspects of war, religion, and dreams of primary individuals represented throughout the film. In doing so, none of its questions and problems raised throughout the proceedings of the story are resolved by its conclusion. David Lean seems content enough to present everything as it is, and to let the audience draw its own conclusion. It is this distinct lack of subjective storytelling and the commitment to objective perspective that strengthens the power of the film and what it brings to the viewer.

Now, on to the film itself. It is a masterwork of cinematography, absolutely beautiful to look at, and the score is a wonder placed upon the eardrums. It is easy to get swept up in Lawrence’s adventure, because the visuals take the audience there, out of Cairo and into the sweltering, wild Arab desert. Every detail is captured, every frame is perfectly composed on the screen and edited in such a way that you can’t but be pulled along by its unrelenting pace. Unrelenting is hardly a detractor, either, as it suits the nature of Lawrence’s long, involving, and merciless quest. There is one scene in particular, in which I was absolutely stunned by what I was seeing captured on film. The scene in question is the storming of Aqaba by the Arab rebels, led by none other than Lawrence himself, in a brilliant, if not brazen, display of tactics and intelligence. Seeing such strategy come to fruition in one truly epic, sweeping motion is quite exhilarating to watch, and the way the camera captures it all in one long, wide, panning shot is just absolute genius. I could just feel the sense of being overwhelmed by the charge of horses and swords and guns and the thought of oh my god, it actually worked. You feel the success, and can’t help but want to partake in the victory of the moment and the spoils. It is a truly magical moment among many in the film, but the others will come later.

The defining characteristic of the look of the film is in its grandiose nature, in the sense that it perfectly captures nature’s ability to be truly grand. Thanks to the cinematography, the audience can see the beauty of the delicate curves of the sand dunes during the day and how it is met with the harsh, weathering winds of night. The graceful unveiling of the rising sun is later contrasted to the withering heat and blinding brightness of midday. Combined with the enthusiastic and adventurous score by Maurice Jarre, there is an undeniable quality about the film that captures and embraces the unforgiving, yet enrapturing nature of the savage nature and its inhabitants, both good and bad.

There are a number of character-defining moments in Lawrence of Arabia, not all of which are demonstrated by the title character, but those will come later. For now, it will satisfy to linger on the climactic scene in the film’s final act, where Lawrence leads the rebels against a band of Turks who have just laid waste to a small village. The director gives us a close-up of Lawrence’s face as he looks out over the devastation, and then to the fleeing raiders. His eyes are bright blue and brimming with brilliant emotion. The audience can’t help but feel the same way. They want justice. They want revenge. Up until this point, Lawrence has been a thoughtful and considerate man, who has done his best to remain in control of the situation. However, at this very moment, against his best friend Sherif’s pleas, he lets his emotions take over, and he gives the order to charge, screaming, “No prisoners! No prisoners!” and then they descend on the defenseless hoard, laying waste to them, leaving no one alive. The audience is witness to hot-blooded emotion that gives way to cold-blooded murder. It is this moment that redefines Lawrence as a different kind of man, a villainous man who no longer passes judgement.

There is another moment toward the end of the film outside the Arab National Committee, where Sherif Ali (Omar Sharif) is confronted by Auda Abu Tayi (Anthony Quinn) about his interest in politics. When Sherif is first introduced, he is a brazen, thieving murderer, and is not viewed in high regard by Lawrence upon their initial encounter. As the film progresses, they become very close friends, developing deep feelings for each other. As we see at the end of the film, Sherif is making an effort to change his ways and become more civilized as Lawrence was when they first met. Now, they have essentially switched places from a psychological point of view. When they first met, Lawrence said to him, “As long as fight tribe against tribe, they will always be a little people - a silly people!” And now Sherif wants to change that. But as Auda proves, by having Sherif drawing his blade in anger, Sherif is ultimately unable to change who he is inside. However, this is not the case for Lawrence. He has been changed forever by his experience, and certainly not for the better.

When I initially viewed this movie, I developed my own assumptions about the character and the story that was unfolding before me. Given its date of production, and some interesting production decisions (like casting only one Arab actor and having all the other major Arab characters like Auda Abu Tayi and Prince Feisal being played by distinguished English actors putting on accents - and the lack of any women in on-screen roles), I assumed that this would be a whitewashed production about the blond-haired, blue-eyed Western ideal coming in and saving the native population from invaders. Indeed, there are certainly racist connotations to the way certain characters speak (“They do not understand what modern weapons do!” “They are unused to explosives and machines”). However, that only provides support for my assumptions in the first half. The second half of the film strikes a different tone altogether, with Lawrence experiencing the downward spiral into madness and savagery, something he criticized the Arabs for earlier. After the scene with Lawrence’s suggested rape by his captors, he has a different look in his eyes not unlike the painful gaze he has before he orders the charge on the raiders later. By the end of the film, it has become a subversion of the expected cliche “White Savior” story, and rises above it to become something more: a criticism of man and his brutal nature, the very nature of war itself and the toll it takes on his humanity. As foreshadowed in the beginning of the film, Mr. Dryden says to Lawrence, as Lawrence is holding a lit match, “It is recognized that you have a funny sense of fun,” before Lawrence blows it out.

Of course, a director is only as good as his writers, so equal credit for this achievement is deserved by the film’s two writers, Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, for extracting the heart and soul out of T.E. Lawrence’s writings and reinterpreting them into a masterful screenplay. In turn, David Lean’s deft ability to bring it to the silver screen is an amazing feat in itself. Together, these men have taken the essence of the human condition and made it digestible for audiences everywhere.

Dino-Score: 5/5