One of the most striking qualities about Chris Weitz’s A Better Life is the emotional punch the film packs.  From start to finish, the film explores the emotional struggles between father and son, as well as subtly engrossing the audience with understated yet honest poignancy.  In addition to powerful performances by the film’s acting ensemble, one of the ways the film cinematically achieves its high emotional value is through refined camerawork and clever cinematic technique.  More pointedly, there are two scenes, which nearly bookend the film, that, when looked at closely, highlight the director’s perceptive technique and how it contributes to the high emotional quality of A Better Life.

To begin, A Better Life follows Carlos Galindo (Demian Bichir), an illegal Mexican immigrant living in America.  Because Carlos has no papers, he works as a gardener “under the table” to make ends meet.  Moreover, Carlos has a teenage son, Luis (Jose Julian), whose mother left when he was young.  Luis runs with a rough, gang-connected crowd, which gets him suspended from school and in trouble with the law, much to his father’s chagrin.  Nevertheless, although tension exists between father and son, there is also a great deal of love between the two.  Seizing a business proposition, Carlos buys a truck and new gardening tools to start his own gardening business.  However, one afternoon a man Carlos hired to work with him double-crosses Carlos and steals the truck, the tools, and several of Carlos’ personal belongings.  Facing complete financial devastation, Carlos and Luis do the only thing they can do and begin a journey to recover their stolen items.  Along the way, Carlos and Luis’ bond grows stronger, but also gets subjected to the ultimate test.

Interestingly, the film has an extended exposition, with the actual plotline beginning nearly 40 minutes into the 98 minute film; however, this elongated exposition allows time for the film to explore characterization, as well as build an emotional connection between characters and between the characters and the audience.  Within this exposition there is a scene in which Carlos opens Luis’ bedroom door before waking him up for school one morning.  Carlos opens the door and lovingly gazes in on his sleeping son, establishing, for the audience, the love this father feels.  Yet, as a man trying to provide for his son (a son he knows is making poor choices and exhibiting reckless and disrespectful behavior), Carlos tries to take on the persona of a strict father, one who conceals his emotions.  Thus, not wanting to take the risk that Luis would recognize his father’s gaze as loving and mistakenly think Carlos could be taken advantage of, Carlos closes the door, knocks, and yells to his son, waking the sleeping Luis.  Then, Carlos reopens the door, as though for the first time.  As Luis awakes and the two begin a brief early-morning conversation, the camera cuts between respective medium shots of each character and slowly zooms in during each one.  The zoom is so slow, in fact, that unless one is looking for it, the movement could be missed altogether.

The slow zoom is the cinematic reaffirmation of the bond between father and son.  While the characters actions, such as Carlos lovingly gazing at the sleeping Luis, establishes the bond between the two, the camera’s slow zoom during their conversation symbolizes, visually, the two continue to grow closer.  Furthermore, the subtle, tender camera zoom helps build the audience’s bond with the film because as the camera zooms in on the characters the audience is also getting closer to them, spatially speaking, heightening the film’s emotional value.  Moreover, the fact that the zoom is so slow makes that intimacy it builds trustworthy; the audience is not being forced at the characters, instead the leisurely speed feels safe and comfortable. 

This early scene in the film echoes again in the film’s climax, when Luis finally visits Carlos in jail.  Just like the opening scene, the camera originally captures the characters in respective medium shots.  As their conversation becomes more emotional, and Carlos ultimately breaks down in tears, the camera begins the same subtle zoom. Like the previous scene, the zoom symbolizes the two are growing closer, and also that the audience gets closer to the characters.  Yet, unlike the previous scene, this segment takes the emotional level further; after some zooming, the camera cuts to respective close-ups of the two, instead of medium shots.  Close-ups are the shots typically conveying passion and feelings, which work best in this particular scene.  Thus, after the zoom builds the emotional impact of the scene, the close-up shots become even more potent, as the already invested audience gets the closest they have ever been to these characters during their most unfiltered, honest, heart-wrenching conversation.  Weitz’s decision to start with medium shots, then begin the slow zoom technique, and finally conclude with close-ups successfully builds the emotion of the scene up to a poignant climax, for both characters and audience.

Figuratively speaking, emotion is the language A Better Life speaks, and camera technique is the instrument by which that language is expressed.  Not only do the characters ride an emotional rollercoaster throughout this film, but the audience, too, experiences the highs and lows of Carlos and Luis’ journey in large part due to exceptional and understated camerawork.  And, as stated in past entries and will continue to be stated when appropriate, it is always refreshing to see a film communicate to an audience primarily through cinematic devices, such as camerawork and technique, as opposed to relying on the narrative.  Cinema is a powerful medium of communication, and it is always a treat to watch films by a director who recognizes that power and uses it wisely.

Everyone, at some point in life, wishes he/she could go back in time.  Some people wish they could return to a happier or simpler time in their own life, maybe reliving a special or exciting day.  Others wish they could return to era predating their life, an era idealized.  Although it seems this desire for yesteryear is harmless, fixating on the past has less to do with the glory of days gone by and more to do with avoiding the present.  Taking that thought further, reverting to the past, a time that has already been lived, seems a distressed attempt to secure safety from life’s unforeseen curveballs and quick turns.  Otherwise known as nostalgia, this longing for the past is the focus of Woody Allen’s sleeper-hit Midnight in Paris.

Allen’s Midnight in Paris follows Gil (Owen Wilson), a successful screenwriter from Hollywood who aspires to become a novelist.  Gil is vacationing in Paris with his fiancée, Inez (Rachel McAdams), and her family.  Although Gil and Inez are marrying in a short time, their relationship is falling apart; unbeknownst to Gil, Inez is having an affair with an old flame.  While strolling alone one night, Gil happens upon a taxi straight out of the 1920s, literally.  The taxi takes Gil back in time, to the era in Paris’ history Gil most idealizes, where his literary and artistic heroes, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T. S. Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, and Gertrude Stein, are in their prime.  Enamored with his idols, Gil returns to the 1920s at the stroke of midnight every night, which, literally and figuratively, pulls him even further from Inez.  Furthermore, Gil meets Adriana (Marion Cotillard) in the 1920s, and the two quickly develop feelings for one another.  One night, during one of Gil and Adriana’s walks, the two happen upon a horse-drawn carriage, which takes them back further into time, straight to Paris in the 1890s, which is the era Adriana most idealizes.  Finding himself in the 19^th century, in front of Toulouse-Lautrec in the Moulin Rouge, Gil must decide whether to keep living in the past or stay permanently in the present.  In the end, Gil bids the past goodbye, as well as his fiancée, Inez.  In the film’s final scene, Gil strolls alone though modern-day Paris, and, at the stroke of midnight, runs into Gabrielle (Lea Seydoux), a Parisian woman Gil met days earlier in the market.  Evident from their earlier meeting, the two clearly share interests.  As it begins to rain, a weather condition both Gil and Gabrielle agree is the most beautiful in Paris, the two walk off together to get a cup of coffee.

While the term nostalgia is not used as much in today’s culture as it once was, the word’s history is negative.  In the 18^th century, nostalgia was a medical disease (illness) one could contract.  In the 19^th century, nostalgia was a psychological disorder, under the umbrella of depression, for people who experienced extreme homesickness.  In both centuries, those afflicted with nostalgia were considered weak; as a diagnosis, nostalgia was often times humiliating.  Perhaps in response to the negativity attached to nostalgia, Woody Allen takes a stand by creating, arguably, one of his most uplifting films that offers one sure-fire cure for nostalgia, hope.

There is a saying that goes, “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it,” and this is the very mantra Allen suggests is key for those, like Gil, struggling with nostalgia.  In Midnight in Paris, Gil is caught up in a romanticized version of Paris in the 1920s.  For him, the modern-day world he lives in pales in comparison, making life miserable.  However, Gil seizes a fantastical opportunity when he enters the mysterious taxi each night and goes back in time to the era his mind idealizes as the Golden Age.  At first, visiting 1920s Paris is everything Gil imagined it would be; however, as time goes on, Gil realizes the 1920s offer many of the same trials and tribulations as the modern-day.  Furthermore, when he learns Adriana believes Paris in the 1890s is the Golden Age, he realizes something more about his fixation on the past: nostalgia has nothing to do with the place or time a person romanticizes; nostalgia is about fearing the present and being unsatisfied with one’s life.  Gil was granted what he wished for when he returned to the 1920s, but by going back he learned his romanticized version on Paris in the 1920s was not everything he glorified it to be.  Thus, in the film’s conclusion, Gil resolves to take ownership of his present, by leaving his fiancée and deciding to move to Paris, and give life in modern-day a chance.  It is a difficult decision for Gil, but one inspired by hope.

Building greater hope in the film, Allen bookends Midnight in Paris with two uplifting segments that reassure viewers Gil’s decision to leave the past behind, freeing himself of the nostalgia that once bound him, is the right one.  The opening sequence of the film is a three and a half-minute montage of modern-day Paris.  The sequence shows the best of Paris: beauty, grace, history, popularity, and style.  It is a blend of familiar images, such as the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, and more discrete alleyways located off the city’s beaten track.  The opening sequence suggests modern-day Paris is as beautiful, inviting, and booming as it has ever been.  The visual postcard is homage to a city that stands as strong and vibrant today as did in the past.

The second bookend is the film’s final scene.  While gazing up at the Eiffel Tower, Gil hears a clock strike midnight.  This is the first time Gil has not caught the taxi at midnight to return to the past.  And, as the clock continues to chime, Gabrielle emerges in front of Gil.  Her appearance at midnight, which feels a lot like fate, reassures the audience that Gil’s decision to stay in the present was the correct one.  Earlier in the film, fate brought the taxi to Gil at the stroke of midnight, and now, after he let the past go and took control of his life in the present, fate brings Gabrielle to him at the stroke of midnight.  Although a bit hokey, Allen’s final scene suggests the romanticism Gil mistakenly placed in the past has now been accurate inserted into his present.

The bookends in Midnight in Paris support the hope Gil finds in the present, which is his cure for the nostalgia that plagued him.  The only way Gil could realize his vision of the past was skewed came from visiting the past for himself and seeing that life, no matter which era or in which city one lives it, is difficult.  In the real world, people are not given the opportunity Gil received; however, watching his journey to let go of the glorified past in the “reel” world certainly offers are great sense of hope for audience member about the present.

When a silent film gets released roughly 70 years after silent films ceased production, one logical question that comes to mind is, “Why now?”  To be blunt, why The Artist?

In short, Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist is a silent film about silent filmmaking.  Set in 1927′s Old Hollywood, George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) is a silent film superstar, the elite of celebrities, beloved and respected by all.  However, with the onset of “talkies,” George’s status in Hollywood gets lost, seemingly overnight.  Like many real-life celebrities of the time, George’s refusal to accept talking pictures as the future of cinema caused an abrupt end to his remarkable career.  That, compounded with the stock market crash of 1929, forced George into bankruptcy and depression.  Depression so bad he attempted suicide to escape his crippling sadness.  Yet, young starlet, Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), who was unsuccessful in silent films, but found a prosperous career in the talkies, falls for George.  The romance between the two blooms, which pulls George out of the depression and gives him the inspiration necessary to reinvent a new career within the rapidly changing film industry.

Today, we live in an era that will surely go down in the history books as a technological revolution.  More prevalent in first-world countries, it seems every minute advancements in technology are made, creating newer, better, and faster devices.  For example, upon the release of the iPhone 4S, people were already buzzing about the, still unreleased, iPhone 5.  Surely, thanks to the brilliance of the late Steve Jobs and his contemporaries (assuming there are others who match his genius), this new phone will perform tasks more expediently and effectively.  Yet, what was wrong with the iPhone 4S?  For that matter, what was wrong with four other iPhones that came before it?  The answer is nothing.  In today’s world we no longer subscribe to the ideology, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”  Instead, we have stopped waiting for the breaks; we are focused on moving quickly enough to avoid them all together.

Antiquation is a necessary counterpart to technology.  We are always making room for tomorrow and rarely glancing back at what is being thrown away from yesterday, and this is the message in The Artist.  George Valentin was outsourced by talking pictures.  There was nothing “broken” about silent films, but they became instantly antiquated when technological advancements supported sound in film, thus antiquating George.

From this, The Artist asks its viewers to consider what is being lost as technology progresses so quickly.  Sure, George does land on his feet in the end (of course audience are treated with a happy ending…painfully typical and too often forced Hollywood conclusion, thanks a lot, The Artist), but George represents a generation of people who were not as lucky: Louise Brooks, Harold Lloyd, and Clara Bow, to reference some of the silent-era’s major players.  Even Charlie Chaplin, who seems to have been a major inspiration for the character of George, faced setbacks when persevering to continue with silent filmmaking after “talkies” become the sensation.  In consideration of what is being left behind, The Artist questions what all this feverish outsourcing is costing us.  What are we “throwing away?”  Evolution and progression are necessary, especially in technology, but who is accounting for the casualties, and where are they piling up?

The Artist, as a silent film, may initially seem out of place for 21^st century audiences; yet, it is really no different than science fiction films set in other worlds or the far-off future.  Like these sci-fi movies, Hazanavicius’ The Artist distorts today’s reality, or removes itself from it enough, to comment on it.  The Artist’s message about rapid technological advancements is entirely relevant to today, making the film timely, clever, and highly appropriate for 2011 audiences to reflect upon.

Still from SAFETY LAST! (1923), starring Harold Lloyd, that seems to say it all

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, in its original form, is the first dense and lengthy novel of the Karla Trilogy, written by John le Carre in 1974.  In 1979, a 5-hour BBC mini-series adapted the novel, and this past year a feature film condensed the material further, to just over two hours, for the silver screen.  Yet, although the shortest of all representations of this narrative, Tomas Alfredson’s Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, the feature-film, still contains all the plot twists, characters (and characters and characters), historical information, and espionage jargon of its much lengthier interpretations.  Thus, audience members watching Alfredson’s film are unavoidably overwhelmed by the seemingly insurmountable narrative.

As briefly and straightforwardly as possible, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy takes place in 1973 during the Cold War.  Control (John Hurt), chief of the British Intelligence agency known as the Circus, retires at the beginning of the film.  Strangely, he forces his right-hand man, George Smiley (Gary Oldman), to retire as well.  Due to their departure, other members of the Circus, Bill Haydon (Colin Firth), Roy Bland (Ciaran Hinds), and Percy Alleline (Toby Jones), assume Control and Smiley’s positions within the organization.  Shortly after his retirement, Control dies, leaving Smiley with a nearly impossible task.  Control had information that there is a Soviet spy in the Circus, meaning one of the three men in Circus is feeding the Soviets top-secret British Intelligence information.  Before dying, Control code-named each man:  Percy as Tinker, Bill as Tailor, and Roy as Soldier.  In his “retirement,” along with trusted Intelligence connections, Jim Prideaux (Mark Strong), Ricki Tarr (Tom Hardy), and Connie Sachs (Kathy Burke), Smiley embarks on an international investigation to uncover which British Intelligence agent, Tinker, Tailor, or Soldier, is the spy.

Reduced to this plot summation, which is devoid of the narrative’s density, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy boils down to one essential question:  who is the Soviet mole in the Circus?  Subplots aside, Smiley’s quest to uncover the mole, completing the work of his mentor, Control, is the film’s driving force.

Curiously, in the midst of a complicated narrative, the mole’s identity is a relatively simple thing to figure out.  In fact, aesthetically speaking, this film actually calls attention to the mole himself rather early on in the film.  To unpack this idea will require a close look at a highly significant motif in the film, a motif in the form of a prop, glasses.

Smiley wears glasses, and not just any glasses, thick, brown framed glasses.  Theoretically speaking, in a film, male characters who wear glasses are “see-ers,” typically meaning they see what is happening within the film from a better perspective, or have a heightened awareness and/or knowledge of something significant within the film.  An important distinction, but complete aside, is that female characters who wear glasses are typically stripped of their femininity on film; thus, females who wear glasses are weakened and challenged in cinema.   Women in films are there to be seen, not to see for themselves.  Nevertheless, Smiley is a male, and his thick framed glasses represent his alert, clever persona and his ability to see through the guises around him to find the truth.

This argument in justified by the film when Jim Prideaux, now out of British Intelligence, becomes a teacher at a school for boys.  One of the outcasted boys, Bill, who builds a bond with Jim, wears large glasses, not dark in frame, but very similar to Smiley’s.  Jim notably tells Bill “as long as he’s got his specs” he will always be able to see things.  Jim empowers the young boy with the constant reiteration that he is strong because he sees things around him clearer and more objectively than others.  Moreover, toward the end of the film, when Smiley visits Jim at his school, Jim calls Bill over to him as the boys are all playing on and open field.  Jim points to Smiley, who is standing at the other end of field.  From this distance, Smiley paces, waiting for the opportunity to speak to Jim.   Jim prompts Bill to look at Smiley and tell him what he sees.  Through this action, the film is calling to attention Bill’s perspective, through his “specs,” is a desirable one; to Jim, Bill can see Smiley in a way others cannot.

With the motif better examined, enter the mole.  Bill Haydon inconsistently wears thinly-framed glasses in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.  At times, Bill attends the Circus meetings, at the start of the film, with glasses on, but mysteriously loses them as the film progresses.  Once the film establishes Bill wears his glasses in top-secret meetings, but misplaces them other times, it becomes clear he is the mole.  Only the mole would become a “see-er” during top-secret meetings, so he would have information to pass on to the Soviets, but be unable to see outside the meetings, as Smiley narrows in on the Circus spy.  Haydon is a “see-er,” but only when it comes to information for the Soviets, making him an ideal spy.  Yet, Haydon is not as consistent a “see-er” as Smiley, who wears his glasses always, thus is unable to see Smiley’s investigation will lead to his undoing.

It is ironic that Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is so complicated from a narrative perspective but could reveal itself so simply from a visual standpoint.  Yet, while the mole’s identity is the film’s driving force, its intricate exploration into espionage during the Cold War is the film’s true purpose.  Thus, by the time Tailor gets outed, in the conclusion, the film fizzles out.  Tailor’s fate now seems minuet and unimportant compared to the portrait of the Cold War Alfredson’s film painted.

Melancholia, the latest film from Danish director Lars von Trier, is an apocalyptic drama told in two parts: Part I: Justine and Part II: Claire.  Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) are sisters, and, although each part focuses on the two women respectively, each woman plays a vital role in her sister’s section of the film.  In Part I, von Trier captures Justine’s descent into a bout of deep depression during her all-night wedding reception.  In Part II, which takes place shortly after Part I (although he audience is never told exactly how long after), von Trier follows Claire’s anxiety and panic as the rouge planet, Melancholia, which was “hiding” behind the sun, changes course and makes its way toward Earth.  By the film’s conclusion, Claire’s worst fears become reality; Melancholia collides with and destroys Earth a ball of fire.

In many ways, Melancholia is a quintessential Lars von Trier film.  First, as in so much of his filmography, von Trier presents a female protagonist(s).  Justine and Claire, like the women in almost all von Trier’s films, are struggling females living within a flawed system or society.  Subsequently, the flaws within the system and society lead to the undoing of the protagonists.  Justine and Claire are unique women, yet there are echoes of Grace (Nicole Kidman) from Dogville, Bess from Breaking the Waves (Emily Watson), and Selma (Bjork) from Dancer in the Dark in them (to name female characters from some von Trier films of the last 15 years).

In addition to the female protagonist, the camerawork in Melancholia is also quintessential von Trier.  The director almost always uses the handheld camera technique; therefore, the film, ideally, has a greater affect in its audience.  With the handheld technique the camera moves around in the middle of the action, giving the audience a greater sense of realism.  Moreover, the constant movement of the camera and the way it causes images to rapidly come in and out of focus can make the audience a bit motion sick.  The camera is intentionally unstable in Melancholia, which can be a difficult von Trier signature for viewers.

Yet, while there are classic von Trier stamps on Melancholia, there is something new in von Trier’s cinematic approach with this film.  Typically, von Trier emphasizes realism in his films’ visual presence; Melancholia is a complete change.  Inspired by German Romanticism, Melancholia’s aesthetic is sensationalized and reminiscent of the beautiful paintings and artwork of the 18th and 19th centuries.  For example, during the overture the images, which are moving in extreme slow motion, seem like portraits from the German Romantic movement.  Due to this remarkable shift in aesthetic, Melancholia serves as a foil for Dogville, an earlier von Trier film, filmed in a black box theatre with no set and minimal props.  The German Romantic movement inspires a completely new feel and design to von Trier’s film that he has not explored before, marking an expansion in von Trier’s style.

Nevertheless, in content, Melancholia aligns with von Trier’s personal experience.  As an individual who struggles with depression, von Trier courageously confronts his own demons in Melancholia, which allows him to explore this subject matter with authenticity and accuracy.  The film is about depression, yet that word is never mentioned.  Clearly, Justine suffers from severe depression, which, at one time, would have been diagnosed as melancholia.

In Part I: Justine, Justine’s efforts to “be happy” at her wedding reception unavoidably deteriorate as her behavior becomes odder and increasingly dejected.  As an audience member, it is not difficult to understand that Justine suffers from severe depression and she slipping into a dangerously deep bout right in front of our eyes; the severity of her suffering is almost immediately evident and frighteningly tragic.  However, as an audience member it is difficult to understand the people surrounding Justine.  Why does no one acknowledge Justine’s condition?  Claire refers to her as “sick,” tells Justine she must not let her new husband, Michael, know she is “sad,” and reminders Justine more than once at the wedding reception that she “promised to not do this” (meaning, slip into a fit of depression).  Claire is completely preposterous.  How could Justine be held to such a senseless and impossible promise?  Moreover, Justine tells her mother (Charlotte Rampling) outright that she is “scared,” while she begs for help, and she pleads with her father (Jesper Christensen) to stay and talk to her, but both parents selfishly deny the plight of their anguished child.  Even the party guests at the wedding frolic around, dancing, drinking, and laughing, as the bride mostly wanders around, dejected, from place to place, often lurking in the background of her own wedding reception, and frequently fleeing the party mysteriously for long periods of time.

The film argues that society’s treatment of depression is, in many ways, just as dysfunctional as depression itself.  According to this film, ignoring depression feeds depression.  As Justine’s behavior is swept under the rug, mostly by Claire who chases Justine around and feverishly trying to hide and excuse her behavior, Justine’s depression worsens.  Depression is the elephant in the room, until, of course, its gigantic presence can no longer be hidden…enter the rogue planet Melancholia.

In Part II: Claire, the rogue planet, Melancholia, which is vastly larger than Earth, “dances” with Earth.  The planet, evident by its name, is a metaphor for depression.  Traceable with the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the term “melancholia” dates back to the 17^th century and has always referred to a state of severe depression (Justine’s affliction).  Claire is terrified Melancholia will hit Earth and end the world, but her husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland), relentlessly attempts to pacify her by saying, “Melancholia is [only] going to pass by us.”  Again, this is preposterous; melancholia does not pass by, it hits and hits hard.  Claire’s fear of the planet is the same fear she has always had of her sister’s depression, but this time she cannot sweep it under the rug and pretend it is not there; Claire must confront Melancholia, stare it down in all its glory as its majestic, immense blue aura shines down on the Earth.

Initially, as everyone watches, Melancholia passes by the Earth.  But, in passing by, the elephant in the room can no longer be ignored; Melancholia no longer hides behind the sun or in the shadows.  Therefore, the game of pretending is over, the fear is real, and the end is near.  Melancholia continues its dance, circling back and consuming the earth.

Von Trier treatment of depression in Melancholia is as honest as it is hopeless.  Like the planet, the film dances with melancholia and ultimately succumbs to its power.  There is no artificial, fairytale ending that recuperates the film, allowing the audience to feel the satisfaction of right having been restored.  Like Earth in the film, Melancholia consumes its audience.  Thus, even with the new terrain von Trier explores in Melancholia, in terms of the German Romanticism inspired aesthetic, the film sustains the signature, avant-garde von Trier techniques, which never disappoint.

In mid-July of 1942, as WWII began to rage, French officials, in accordance with German decree, arrested over 13,000 French Jews and forced them into either the Velodrome d’hiver (an indoor cycling track) or the nearby Drancy internment camp.  In both places, living conditions were inhumane.  In time, Jews in both locations were forced on trains to Auschwitz where they were exterminated.  This horrifying incident is known as the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup.

Gilles Paquet-Brenner’s Sarah’s Key centers on this appalling moment in France’s history.   The film jumps between two characters: Sarah Starzynski (Melusine Mayance), a Jewish child living in Paris during 1942, and Julia Jarmond (Kristin Scott Thomas), a middle-aged writer and Vel’ d’Hiv researcher living in Paris in 2009.  Sarah and her family are arrested during the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup, but, in trying to save her younger brother Michel, Sarah locks him in a secret closet in the Starzynski’s apartment so the police cannot find him.  Holding the key to the closet tight in her hands, Sarah and her parents endure the deplorable conditions in the Velodrome d’hiver, as well as separation in a transit camp while en route to Auschwitz.  After the separation, but before being transported to Auschwitz, Sarah becomes very sick and gets cared for by another little girl in the camp.  The two become close and Sarah devises a plan to escape, as she feels it is her responsibility to return to her apartment with the key and free her brother from his hiding spot.  Miraculously, the two girls escape and get taken in by an elderly couple.  Sadly, the little girl with Sarah become ill and dies from diphtheria; yet, Sarah, resiliently, does not allow any of the traumas inflicted upon her break her focus from freeing Michel.  In a short time, the elderly couple takes Sarah back to her apartment, but, tragically, Sarah opens the closet and finds her brother’s remains.

Consistently using the cross-cutting technique, the film also follows Julia, who is about to move into a new apartment in Paris, which belonged to her husband’s family.  Not long into the film, Julia learns she is pregnant, which thrills her, but disappoints her husband.  This causes a rift in their relationship, and pushes Julia to immerse herself in her research and writing.  While investigating the Velodrome d’Hiver and the Jews incarcerated there in July 1942, Julia begins wonder if a Jewish family occupied her newly inherited apartment during the roundup.  She discovers her apartment belonged to the Starzynski’s, but the building’s landlady rented to out to Julia’s husband’s family, the Tezacs, after the Starzynski family’s arrest.  Conflicted, Julia desperately searches for information about the Starzynski family.  She learns both parents were killed in Auschwitz, but cannot find any record for Sarah or her younger brother Michel.  From her father-in-law, Julia learns of Michel’s fate, and is given a file which leads her on an international search for information about the little girl who escaped the Holocaust.

The most riveting parts of the film are of Sarah’s experience in the Velodrome d’Hiver and transit camp, and the way Paquet-Brenner captures the settings with his camera greatly adds to cinematic experience.  Paquet-Brenner frequently juxtaposes hand-held shots, which place the audience directly in the middle of the action, with crane shots, which elevates the audience from the action.  Moreover, the director uses a tracking crane shot with a bird’s eye angle (looking directly down at the action) in the Velodrome, which not only elevates, but also removes the audience from the action more so than a standard crane shot.

During the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup and subsequent incarceration in the transit camp, the hand-held camera technique is frequently used and the effect of this technique is a feeling of fear and confusion.  As people move quickly all around the camera, figures come in and out of focus, thus enhancing the chaos of the scene.  When Sarah’s father is separated from her and her mother, and later when Sarah and her mother separate, the hand-held camera technique is used to convey the danger present in the scene, as well as the tragedy.  Conversely, the crane shots looks down upon the action from an elevated perspective.  These shots are used repeatedly, such as when the Starzynski family enters the Velodrome.  These shots help the audience to take in the scale of what happened at Velodrome, but do so from a safe, removed perspective.  Paquet-Brenner knows he must alternate between the two types of camera techniques.  If he only used hand-held shots the emotion would be too great and the audience would, likely, become unable to continue watching the film; however, if he only used crane shots the audience could not bond as strongly with the characters because of their removed perspective.

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At one point, Paquet-Benner uses a crane shot with a bird’s eye angle which tracks in the Velodrome above bleachers of Jews sitting, praying, and laying down on the hard, dirty benches.  These people are amid human waste, buckets of blood, dirt, and abandoned belongings.  Although cinema does not (yet) offer smell to its audiences, the graphic visual images evoke the putrid stench present in this former cycling arena.  In using this shot Paquet-Brenner shows his audience the bigger picture, the bird’s eye view, of the Velodrome.  While the audience becomes invested in the Starzynski family’s struggle, this shot, like many of the crane shots, reminds the audience of the thousands of people, not just fictional characters in a movie, actually experienced these conditions, conditions not even suitable for animals.  Reminding the audience of all the people in the Velodrome adds gravity to this gruesome event in history.

Moreover, Paquet-Brenner also uses this tracking bird’s eye crane shot to remove the audience emotionally, as much as he can, from the Velodrome.  The scene at the Velodrome is visually traumatic for the audience, so Paquet-Brenner is careful with not only what he shows, but also how he shows it.  Too much hand-held camerawork would be an emotional avalanche.  Looking straight down shows the audience shows a lot, but it also shows them everything from the most removed perspective possible.  The camera, and therefore the audience, is safe from the horror below.  Additionally, an audience member could never actually see from this perspective in reality (that’s why it’s called a “bird’s eye view,” because only the birds can see from it as they fly).  Thus, in showing the audience the Velodrome from this unnatural angle, viewers are even further away from the action because they are seeing from an impossible perspective.

After these distinct uses of crane shots and hand-held camera techniques, Sarah Starzynski and her friend escape the transit camp and Paquet-Brenner’s camera technique changes to reflect the hope, power, and, of course, freedom of their getaway.  As the two girls run from the barbed wire that once bound them, they sprint through a wheat field, with stalks of wheat waist-high.  To capture this, Paquet-Brenner uses a tracking low-angle shot, nearly a complete reversal of the crane shots.  With this low angle shot, the camera looks up at the girls and captures them running.  By looking up at the girls the camera conveys their power.  Also, because the camera is looking up from the ground, the shot is nearly overwhelmed with the bright, clouded, blue sky above the girls.  The vastness of the sky, in this shot, represents hope and freedom; the sky is boundless, as are the girls’ lives now that there are free.

When juxtaposed, it’s clear the consistent use of converse camera techniques and angles are in consideration of the audience’s emotional investment in Sarah’s Key.  Sarah’s experience while incarcerated and her escape are, arguably, the most emotional parts of the narrative.  Not only because the audience becomes invested in the child, but because Sarah represents the millions of Jews who were mercilessly massacred during the Holocaust.  Paquet-Brenner treats this subject with care, allowing the audience to invest emotionally, but knowing when, and how, to pull back.

Toward the beginning of Sarah’s Key, Julia tells her editor, when trying to acquire a larger layout for her piece on Vel’ d’Hiv, he should give her permission to write a longer article because “readers love history.”  That is not only true of magazine readers, but readers of cinema, too, love films, like Sarah’s Key, centering of major historical events.  Like Julia, Paquet-Benner takes his time to get the layout just right.  Perhaps, as some critics suggest, Paquet-Benner makes the film a bit longer and drawn out than others would; yet, that aside, the film is constructed with consideration and focus, namely through many of this subtle and effective camera techniques, to convey Sarah’s Key on the screen.

Monument honoring the victims of the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup

From the narrative perspective, Julia Leigh’s Sleeping Beauty is about a university student, Lucy (Emily Browning), a loner who experiments occasionally with drugs and other self-destructive behavior, but is a hard worker in what seems like an endless list of jobs.  While some of her jobs are typical, such as copy girl and waitress in a café, some are less conventional, such as test subject in a science lab.  In addition, twice in the film Lucy solicits sexual activity from men in high-end bars (although the audience never sees the activity or Lucy receiving payment from the men).  Moreover, one of Lucy’s most curious jobs is as nursemaid to a character named Birdmann.  Birdmann is a drug addict whose physical condition deteriorates throughout the film.  Ultimately, Lucy’s job, as it pertains to Birdmann, is to bring him food, alcohol, company (but never sex), and be at his side when he dies.  Yet, regardless of working all these jobs and attending university, Lucy answers an ad in the paper for yet another job, one more bizarre than all the others.

According to Clara (Rachael Blake), the woman Lucy interviews with, the new job is silver-service in lingerie, meaning a formal, structured service position at high-end dinner parties.  Clara makes it clear to Lucy, who she renames Sarah, that despite the sexual eroticism involved in these parties “[Lucy's/Sarah's] vagina will not be penetrated; [her] vagina is a temple.”  Lucy does not see it that way, evident by her response, “My vagina is not a temple.”  Inevitably, Lucy’s work as a silver-service lingerie girl is rewarded and she gets promoted, by Clara, to a new position, a Sleeping Beauty.  As a Sleeping Beauty, Lucy must drink an elixir of drugged tea which puts her into a deep sleep.  While asleep she is not allowed to know what happens to her, but Clara makes the same promise to her regarding vaginal penetration.  Although Lucy remains in the dark, the audience sees that while she is asleep the elderly men from the silver-service party have their way with her unconscious body, but Clara’s promise is never broken; the men do not have sex with Lucy.

Ultimately, Lucy finds it unbearable not knowing what is happening to her while she is asleep, so before her next job Lucy hides a small surveillance camera in her mouth, and just as she is falling into her deep, drug-induced sleep she pulls the camera out and places it in the bedroom.  Because of Lucy’s drug use mixes negatively with the strength of the drugged tea, she nearly dies during this final job and Clara must give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to wake her.  When Lucy final comes to, she sees one of the elderly men from the party naked and dead in the bed with her.  Overwhelmed, Lucy begins to let out a series of loud yells.  The film’s final scene is the surveillance video Lucy shot.  Because the man died, the only thing on the misleading video is Lucy and the elderly man lying still on the bed.

While watching Sleeping Beauty it seems strikingly clear its writer/director, Julia Leigh, was well versed in Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytic work.  A bold take on an oppressive fairytale, Leigh’s film, presented by New Zealand filmmaker Jane Campion, does not hold back, but does require a Freudian lens with which to read it.

In his career, Sigmund Freud developed a theory of psychosexual development; the first stage is the oral stage.  In short, according to Freud, during the oral stage a human receives his/her first sexual stimulation and pleasure through the mouth, which is one of the major erogenous zones of the body.  Ultimately, a person will pass through five stages of psychosexual development, ending at the genital stage. In this her first film, Julia Leigh uses the mouth, the first of Freud’s stages, continuously in Sleeping Beauty as a mirror for the vagina.  The mouth is a motif in Sleeping Beauty, and, although there are no explicit sex scenes in the film, scenes in which the mouth plays a vital role represent the direct sexuality absent from the film.  While Clara’s promise of no vaginal penetration holds true, Lucy has several sexual encounters in the film, including penetration, beginning with the opening scene.

Sleeping Beauty opens in a science lab where Lucy enters as a test subject for experimentation and research.  As test subject, a male lab technician puts a long white tube inside Lucy’s mouth and down her throat.  Read psychoanalytically, this act serves as a sexual encounter.  Moreover, Lucy goes back to the lab later in the film and has the same encounter.  Significantly, in both these encounters at the lab the technician is in control of the encounter.

Later in the film, when Lucy arrives for her first silver-service party, the woman in charge asks Lucy to go upstairs and match the color of her lipstick to the color of her labia.  Leigh’s inclusion of this detail directly connects the mouth with the vagina in the film; thus, strengthening the psychoanalytic reading of the film.  Lucy does not take the woman’s direction seriously, and when the woman notices the lipstick color Lucy selects is not a match she takes matters into her own hands.  After looking to see the appropriate color, the woman applies the lipstick on Lucy herself.  Unlike the scene in the lab, Lucy is not penetrated by the woman; instead, it is a homoerotic encounter.  Yet, the woman, like the lab technician, forces herself on Lucy; the encounter is a violation.

During one of her jobs as a Sleeping Beauty, an elderly man, who is demeaning and revolting, climbs on top of the unconscious Lucy and, after slewing vulgarities, sticks his fingers into her mouth.  This is penetration.  Furthermore, this man sticks his tongue out and licks Lucy’s face.  Reading the film on the psychoanalytic slant, this is not just a sexual act, but also a rape.  Again, Lucy has absolute no power in the acts being forced upon her.

It is important to note the mouth is also a conveyor of voice, and Leigh pays special attention to voice in Sleeping Beauty.  In addition to serving as a mirror for the vagina, the mouth also offers hushed, muffled, and monotone voices.  It is often difficult to make out what characters are saying.  As a viewer this gets frustrating; however the hushed voices become retrospectively clear when the film reaches its powerful climax.

When Lucy awakes, after receiving the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Clara, and sees the dead man lying next to her she lets out a series of piercing yells.  Finally, Lucy puts a stop to being penetrated, her yells prevent it.  With her voice, which is now loud and clear, Lucy’s mouth is closed off to violation; she has now found her voice, and, in doing so, can prevent further penetration and abuse.

Lastly, in taking the psychoanalytic reading of the film this far, it stands to reason Sleeping Beauty is a piece of queer cinema, and is ultimately about female homoeroticism.  Clearly the heterosexual relationships/encounters in the film are negative, abusive, and non-functional.  Conversely, the female relationships/encounters are primarily trusting and caring.  True, the initial encounter between Lucy and the woman, regarding the lipstick shade, was aggressive, yet the relationship between Lucy and Clara is the film’s unconventional love story. It is Clara’s mouth-to-mouth resuscitation that (literally and figuratively) brings Lucy to life in the film’s conclusion.  This powerful moment was foreshadowed the second time Lucy is in the lab with the male technician.  Clara rings Lucy’s phone and Lucy all but yanks the long, white tube from her throat and mouth to answer Clara’s call.  Lucy desires Clara and she responds positively to her, which is in stark contrast to every other relationship she has in the film.

Freud could never fully account for homosexuality, particularly female homosexuality, which is where Leigh takes aim in Sleeping Beauty.  The film cannot be fully appreciated without a psychoanalytic lens, yet it points to an area of psychoanalysis that falters.  Clearly Leigh, a novelist turned director, knew what she was doing.  Sleeping Beauty’s foundation is in psychoanalysis, yet builds off it, evolving into a remarkable contribution to queer cinema.

Sean Durkin’s Martha Marcy May Marlene is one of the most demanding films of 2011.  The film is just over 100 minutes long, but requires innumerable hours of reflection, contemplation, and discussion.  Remarkably, there is no single way to digest Martha Marcy May Marlene; the film is infinite because its ambiguity sustains deep investigation and multiple interpretations.  During a time when filmmakers practically spoon-feed films to audiences, it is a refreshing challenge to encounter a film as complex as Martha Marcy May Marlene.

Briefly, the film picks up with Martha (Elizabeth Olsen) the morning she decides to leave the cult she is involved with.  After witnessing a horrific crime, committed by members to the cult, Martha flees.  Initially, one of the men from the cult, Watts (Brady Corbet), follows her and tries to take Martha back with him; however, after minimal effort, he lets her go and she reunites with her sister, Lucy (Sarah Paulson), and brother-in-law, Ted (Hugh Dancy).  Although Ted and Lucy live in New York City, they take her to their lake house in Connecticut, where they are on holiday for two weeks.  In the days she spends with her family in Connecticut, the audience watches Martha’s mental stability diminish as she flashes back through her experiences in the cult.  Her flashbacks are chronological, all leading up to the horrific crime that pushed her to flee.  Meanwhile, as Martha is reeling in memories, Lucy and Ted, who know nothing of the cult or where Martha has been for the past few years, struggle with Martha’s erratic and bizarre behavior.  In the film’s conclusion, Ted and Lucy decide to admit Martha to a mental hospital.  The final scene of the film is, perhaps, one of the most understated and sophisticated climaxes in cinema.

In the last scene, Ted, Lucy, and Martha are in Ted’s car en route to the hospital.  As they begin driving, a man (the same man Martha saw watching her swim in the lake in a previous scene) walks right in front of the car.  Ted slams on the breaks and the man walks past the car.  Ted and Lucy are shaken by the near accident, but Martha, who is seated in the backseat, is clearly the most distressed by the man’s reemergence; although she does not utter a sound, her face reveals sheer panic.  As Ted drives on, the man, who is visible through the rear window of Ted’s car, gets into the black SUV parked on the side of the road (the same SUV Martha saw in the woods and smashed the window of), and begins to follow Ted’s car.  The credits role.

What becomes evident in this last scene is Martha never escaped the cult.  Instead, the cult let her go.  By the end, the audience knows how the cult operates.  When Martha flashes back to the trauma that pushed her to leave the cult, viewers realize the cult does not make money by selling quilts and blankets, as one woman told Martha upon her entry into their community.  The cult makes their money by breaking into expensive homes, murdering the occupants, and stealing.  Thus, when Martha fled and Watts followed her, he did not force her to return with him because she was more valuable to the cult with her family, Ted and Lucy.  The final scene makes it clear the cult is narrowing in on Ted and Lucy.

What remains a mystery, and is a credit to the film’s ability to sustain ambiguity, is Martha’s involvement in the cult’s plan.  Martha’s mental instability makes it impossible to get a definitive read on her.  For a large part of the film it is uncertain whether the cult even exists.  Martha asks her sister, “Do you ever have that feeling where you can’t tell if something is a memory or if it’s something you dreamed?”  Martha’s own confusion makes her unreliable.  However, as soon as the audience recognizes the man who walks in front of Ted and Lucy’s car in the last scene, a man both Ted and Lucy see for themselves, as the same man who Martha saw watching her in the lake, and gets into the same car Martha broke the window to, it becomes horrifyingly clear Martha’s memories are accurate.  Understanding her experience in the cult was real, the question becomes did Martha knowingly led the cult to her family’s home to kill Lucy and Ted, or did she not piece the cult’s plan together until the end?

One of the most supportable interpretation is that Martha wanted to escape the cult and genuinely thought she had succeeded, in large part because Lucy unexpectedly took her to Connecticut, not New York.  The day after arriving at the lake house, Martha interrogates her sister about their location, asking, “How far are we?”  Lucy responds, “From what?” Martha clarifies, “Yesterday.”  Naively, Martha may have hoped everyone was safe from danger in Connecticut and the cult would lose interest if they were unable to find her.  Yet, the trauma of the cult continues to make Martha paranoid and fearful.  Toward the end of the film, Martha has a breakdown when she thinks the bartender at her sister’s party is a member of the cult.  Although it is unclear whether the bartender is actually with the cult, from that moment on Martha realizes the cult is close and will certainly narrow in on Lucy and Ted.  She tells Lucy and Ted repeatedly, “We have to leave.  We all have to leave.”  Seemingly, Martha pieces everything together at the end, but it is too late.

Certainly, this is not the only possible interpretation of Martha Marcy May Marlene.  The film’s ambiguity not only confirms other interpretations exist, but also that no one interpretation can ever be correct.  While the film is dense and profoundly complicated, at its core Martha Marcy May Marlene is not trying to be a difficult film.  Truly, it is not.  Although it may seem, at times, overdone or unnecessarily complex—somewhat similar to what Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan did last year—Martha Marcy May Marlene is trying to evoke from the audience the same emotions as its protagonist.  Martha is brainwashed, and she cannot decipher reality from imagination.  This leaves her feeling disconnected, confused, frustrated, and frightened.  These are the same feeling audience members have while viewing Martha Marcy May Marlene.  Thus, there is a method to Durkin’s madness.

A very special THANK YOU to Tara Bartram for countless conversations about Martha Marcy May Marlene and the invaluable insight which made this post possible!

Cinematically speaking, a black comedy is a film that finds humor in grim material, particularly, but not exclusively, death.  Furthermore, black comedies, typically, mock difficult topics, like grief and loss, by treating them flippantly and/or absurdly.  Harold Ramis’ The Ice Harvest (2005) is a quintessential black comedy which not only takes aim at death and loss, but also Christmas.  The film exemplifies the darkly witty genre by consistently mocking these gruesome and sinister topics of which the film’s narrative is composed.

The Ice Harvest takes place on Christmas Eve when Charlie (John Cusack), an attorney for a major mobster in Wichita, Kansas, steals two million dollars from his boss.  Charlie leaves the money with his partner in crime, Vic (Billy Bob Thornton), a dodgy businessman; however, the relationship between Charlie and Vic is unstable because Vic’s evasive behavior leaves Charlie questioning whether or not he placed his trust in a reliable partner.  As Charlie wanders around the local strip clubs of Wichita, waiting for the green light to flee town with his share of the money, he spends time with the sexy and surreptitious Renata (Connie Neilsen), as well as Pete (Oliver Platt), Charlie’s ormer best friend and town drunk who ran away with Charlie wife, a few years prior.  In part, the film explores how the underbelly of society might spend their Christmas Eve.  By the end of his eventful and character-defining night, Charlie finds out the hard (and painful) way how much two million dollars actually costs.

The plot and characters of The Ice Harvest are cliché and predictable, which is exactly what makes it a perfect black comedy.  How many films are there that follow one good-hearted character who falls into the corruption of the world around him/her, leaves his/her morals behind, and tries erroneously to push his/her way ahead in the world?  Countless.  Moreover, this character is always, within the film’s narrative, punished somehow for his/her disregard of the law and social expectations.  In a nutshell, this is The Ice Harvest.  All things considered, Charlie is a good man.  His less-than-honorable clients tempt Charlie with bait, to the tune of two million dollars, which he cannot resist.  By the end, Charlie’s compromised morals do leave him richer, but also desolate.  Nevertheless, in unyielding, sarcastic hilarity, The Ice Harvest relishes in the clichés and openly mocks its overdone narrative and the overdramatized topics contained in it.  The Ice Harvest cannot be defined by the story it tells; The Ice Harvest is defined by how it tells the story.

One of the film’s strongest, and therefore funniest, segments, exemplifying the black comedy genre is basks in, occurs when Charlie and Vic attempt to dump Roy (Rick Starr)–an associate of the man they stole the two million dollars from who becomes suspicious of their heist—off a dock to his death in the icy waters below.  By the time the men are en route to dump Roy, Vic has already cut Roy’s thumb off and stuffed him into a trunk.  Yet, Roy is still very much alive in the trunk and armed with a loaded gun.  While driving in the Mercedes to the dock—yes, the Mercedes, because it is some much more spacious than the Lincoln—Vic becomes disgruntled with Roy’s repeated attempts to convince Charlie to free him, as well as Roy repeated death threats toward Vic.  (That’s right, Roy, who is stuffed in a trunk without a thumb, is still threatening Vic as though Roy has any power whatsoever…hilarious.)  What’s even more hilarious about this is that Roy knocks on the trunk before making his threats, as though he wants to get Charlie and Vic’s attention and he doesn’t think his yelling will do it.  Vic repeatedly warns Roy to stop talking, and even tells Charlie to, “Pay no attention to the man in the trunk,” but confesses that he does not remember which end of the trunk Roy’s head is at, so he hesitates shooting at the trunk.  Finally, irate, Vic turns around and shoots.  When Roy ceases to yell, Vic comments, “Well, I guess that was the head-end, huh?”

In the brief ride to the dock the film transforms what could be a tense, disturbing scene into one of the wittiest in the film.  The audience is not disturbed by the gruesome nature of the scene because the film itself is not taking it seriously, particularly through Roy’s knocking and relentless yelling, and Vic’s commentary; the entire scene is completely ridiculous.

Furthermore, once the men reach the dock the scene becomes even more wickedly funnier.  The men push the trunk slowly down the dock.  Of course, because the film is constantly mocking its own narrative, the dock begins to break.  In a drama that broken dock would symbolize the destruction of morality and heighten the scene’s tension, but in The Ice Harvest the broken dock is another clichéd incident as these two piteous characters, Charlie and Vic, attempt their preposterous antics.  Because the dock is not unstable, Vic decides to lift the truck up on its side.  As soon as this happens, two shots are fired: one straight through the trunk and into Vic’s side, and the other through the truck’s lock.  Roy miraculously fired these two amazing shots from inside the trunk, which forces the trunk to swing open, freeing Roy.  The Ice Harvest totally owns that these astonishing shots are completely absurd.  Vic, taking one look at Roy and casually realizing he has been shot, says, “God damn, Roy.  That was just blind-fucking-luck you asshole.”  The film does not try to build anxiety by rapid cutting, an intensifying musical score, or dramatic (over)acting; the moment is very dry, which makes it very funny.

Roy, emerging from the trunk, continues to threaten Vic’s life, even though his is down one thumb, unable to stand up straight after being stuffed in a trunk for hours, and badly beaten.  Vic, still not fully acknowledging he is shot, reminds Roy he has not bullets left in his gun.  Roy tries anyway, but, alas, Vic was right.  Vic then aims his own gun at Roy and shots him in the chest.  Again, there is no screaming or intensified music; Roy simply straightens his body up and freezes in that position on the dock.  For a moment, the film seems to pause.  Roy’s reaction to being shot is so curious that the audience cannot be horrified; viewers are too busy contemplating whether he is ever going to keel over.  Once again, and in perfect timing, Vic says, “You’re dead, Roy.  Don’t stand there pretending that you’re not.”  With that Roy falls over and breaks the entire dock on his way down.

The subsequent events of Roy’s fall only perpetuates more laughs and chaos as the film catapults towards its climax.  However, the scene of the men driving to the dock and then standing on the dock is quintessential black humor.  A man dies, another is shot, all in the dark of a cold night on an isolated dock in Wichita, Kansas, but the scenes are hilarious because the film never misses and opportunity to highlight the absurdity of the situation.

The film takes what could be a somber (but relentlessly overdone) drama and turns it into a scathing farce.  The fact that the film takes place on Christmas, Jesus’ birthday (which is mentioned more than one in the film), makes it funnier.  The night when peoples’ values are supposedly their highest, and their love for mankind strongest is the night Charlie steals millions of dollars, loiters strip clubs, and kills people.  It’s perfect.  Nothing is safe from The Ice Harvest; the film takes aim and mocks everything in reach.

The Hollywood Foreign Press Association released the 2011 Golden Globe nominees this week.  While some of the nominations are well-deserved, this list left a great deal to be desired.  So much so, in fact, that I instantly knew what my January genre MUST be…

“Here’s Looking at You, HFPA:  Great Films Foolishly Shut-Out at the 2011 Golden Globes”

While I have not finalized my list just yet, you can bet Melancholia, Martha Marcy May Marlene, and Sarah’s Key will all make my cut!

Here’s hoping Oscar does a better job sifting through this year’s films!

The 69th annual Golden Globes will air on Sunday January 15th, 2012.  Will you watch?