Wesley-Wang Reviews

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

Hang Me, Oh Hang Me

[10/10 · 21 March 2020]

There have only been a handful of films in cinematic history that are crafted with such subtle nuance and yet still unashamedly devastating. Think Yasujiro Ozu's sentiment in simplicity, Robert Bresson's philosophies of transcendentalism, Edward Yang's everyday life beauty, and Andrei Tarkovsky's poetry on screen. While Joel and Ethan Coen's 2013 feature Inside Llewlyn Davis may not be as minimalistic as the aforementioned, the film echoes some of the poignant and sublime themes found in its predecessors.

A complete cynical outlook on life and human nature has been present practically throughout all of the Coen Brothers' works; they have even stated in multiple interviews they do not plan to ever make a film displaying the good qualities of humankind, which are, from their point of view, nonexistent in the face of all the bad qualities. In Inside Llewlyn Davis, they have pushed their beliefs to the extremes.

Llewlyn Davis, our struggling musician/protagonist, criticizes his Jean for being a careerist, yet still refuses to play a song for the Gorfeins because it's just his job.He lies to them about having their cat, breaks promises about staying at Jim and Jean's for the last time, leaves a cat to die in a car, leaves another animal to die out in the woods, and heckles a woman on stage.

Such is the hypocritical nature of the artist.

Yet we still empathize with him. We start to realize his disastrous fortune; his close friend recently commited suicide, the woman he loves is pregnant with another man, his ex-lover lied to him about getting an abortion, the one song he declines royalties for is an implied massive success, and he drives all the way to Chicago only to be told he doesn't have the talent to make it. Considering how the beginning is identical to the ending, the circular narrative suggests this struggle will only continue, and perhaps worsen. The viewer's strong connection with Davis's loss and pain drives our desire for him to succeed, even when we knew his hopeless situation was doomed from the start. This is the depressing nature of Inside Llewyn Davis- and life, cynics would add.

Like the cat, Davis is lost. He doesn't have a home, much like how the cat wanders the streets of New York City for almost the entirety of the runtime. Though at the end, the cat does find its way back home, offering a glimmer of hope to our protagonist and viewer. The Coens, it seems, are not always so nihilistic.

Behind the forlorn and vengeful Davis is Oscar Issac, a rising actor perhaps better known by his roles in the Star Wars franchise, Ex Machina (2015), and Annihilation (2016). His performance in Inside Llewyn Davis not only showcases his talent as a lead actor, but is more ambitious than the rest of his filmography combined. Take a look at his posture and expression when it is revealed his ex-girlfriend, Diane, didn't go through with the abortion. We see the betrayal and helplessness straight through his heartbroken eyes, and we feel even more for him when he tries to hide it, saying, "No, no, I knew she was going to Akron, she's from Akron... her parents are in Akron."

Arguably even more outstanding is the dialogue during this series of revelations; writers often struggle with dramatic exposition, but the Coens seemed to have mastered the craft. For example, "Her parents are in Akron," implies she left him because she didn't think he could provide adequate financial support for the three of them, while her parents can. "The kid would be about two now...?" reveals the vast amount of time that has past since her departure, also indicating that Davis's financial and emotional hardships have been transpiring since who knows when. Finally, the doctor first states that Davis does not need to pay, granting the protagonist and the audience a slight relief (a win for the protagonist always means a win for the audience), only to hit us with the devastating truth. This push-pull effect is just the cherry on top for a barely two minute scene, which itself carries more tear-jerking weight than your typical two-and-a-half hour Hollywood blockbuster. Lastly, the scene fits perfectly in the context of the story, leading into his explosion at the Gorfeins.

In other aspects of filmmaking, Director of Photography Bruno Debonnel, known for his work in Amélie (2001) and Darkest Hour (2017), has rightfully prioritized elevating the story over gorgeous, eye-catching images. Notice how in Amélie he has painted the screen with saturated reds and greens to emphasize the protagonist's playful and naive personality, while in Inside Llewyn Davis, we see the complete opposite- a color palette limited to only blue, green, and brown, narrow hallways that symbolize Davis's trapped state, and low light throughout to accentuate the character's hopelessness. A second time around analyzing the film, I found that each scene becomes successively less illuminated; it was at this point I declared this film a masterpiece.

I could very easily go more in depth on Inside Llewyn Davis's soundtrack, ingenious use of dark comedy, and detailed metaphors, but I figured the film is depressing enough on its own.

Fare thee well...

Drive (I) (2011)

False Marketing

[10/10 · 22 August 2019]

Near the end of the film, Driver phones the antagonist, Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks), and says: "You know the story about the scorpion and the frog? Your friend Nino didn't make it across the river."

The fable of "The Scorpion and the Frog" goes like this: A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river. The frog hesitates, afraid of being stung by the scorpion, but the scorpion argues that if it did that, they would both drown. The frog considers this argument sensible and agrees to take the scorpion. The scorpion climbs onto the frog's back and the frog begins to swim, but midway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog, dooming them both. The dying frog asks the scorpion why it stung, to which the scorpion replies, "I couldn't help it. It's in my nature."

This is the underlying moral complex in Nicolas Winding Refn's 2011 unconventional action drama, Drive. Driver, played by brilliantly by the memorable Ryan Gosling, is the frog; like how the frog is eventually drowned because of the scorpion's nature, Driver is eventually "drowned" because of the criminals he helps. Note how the scorpion he wears, which is emphasized repeatedly throughout the film, does not represent what he is, but rather what he carries on his back. We can then deduce that Driver's true nature is, in fact, good (for lack of a better word), but dragged down by his surroundings.

Refn occasionally adds a few touches to support these themes. Irene's son, Benicio, is watching cartoons in an earlier scene and Driver asks him if he thinks a character is a bad guy. Benicio replies, "Of course, he's a shark," to which Driver responds, "So there aren't any good sharks?"

While Driver is confined in a criminal world he despises and feeds on at the same time, he attempts to break free by finding something good in Irene and her son. Their conversations are often awkward with long pauses in between (a common criticism of this film), but not without purpose. Notice how Driver doesn't wear his scorpion jacket especially during these occasions, metaphorically exhibiting his shyness and uneasiness in such situations. This indicates his adaptation to a happier world is a difficult one, with obstacles along the way, Irene's husband/ex-convict, Standard, representing one of them. Capturing the relatable embarrassment of getting to know someone, Gosling and Carey Mulligan display breathtaking chemistry here, walking the fine line between adoration and apprehension. Yet, when Driver wears his jacket, he turns into a vicious, stone-cold killer.

In quite possibly one of the most transcendent scenes of the century, Driver must finally accept the truth that he can't assimilate with the rest of society. His nature and situation does not enable him to do so, no matter how hard he tries. Hence, the infamous elevator sequence. A hitman has been sent to murder Driver, and Irene has just rejected Driver's offer of running away with him and the money. The three of them meet in the elevator. Driver then realizes he can't hide the other half of him, and before brutally slaughtering the hitman, moves Irene to the side, and kisses her, knowing it will probably be the last time they'll see each other. Refn's slow motion, perceptive intuitive rhythm, and atmospheric lighting transforms an ordinary romantic embrace into an absolutely breathtaking experience, and considering the context of the film, one of the greatest climactic self-realizations ever put to screen. That moment Driver saw the hitman, he knew he can't ever have Irene. He knew the next few seconds will most likely be the only time he could ever be truly happy again. He knew, that after Irene sees his other half, everything will be over.

And it was, for the most part. Driver proceeds to decimate the rest of the scorpions, and as he drives off into the night, leaving the money behind, we're left to wonder if he dies or not. Such ambiguous endings are often debated if they're necessary or not, and I would dare argue a conclusive ending would have been more satisfactory. After all, if Driver dies, it completes the metaphor that the scorpion and frog fable started. But it begs the question: is Driver somehow different?

Despite its ingenious thematic finesse, Drive's strongest aspects transpire more technically. As previously mentioned, Gosling's execution is just a masterclass in restrained performance; working on the paradigm of talking so little, yet saying so much. His eyes are energetic yet longing, shooting glances that make you feel scared and sorry at the same time. He absolutely rocks the outfit too, and I can't think of a single actor today who could have delivered a more convincing performance than he did.

But of course, there is no Drive without its soundtrack. Johnny Jewel of "Desire" and the "Chromatics" assembled a magnificent score, both atmospheric and memorable. Nostalgic in its 80's vibe, and overwhelming in its synthesizers, boundless in its elusiveness, Jewel's creation is something so unique and extraordinary that the feeling expressed is so beautifully indescribable. "Nightcall" by Kavinsky is about a girl that embraces her ghost lover despite his robotic behavior, "Under Your Spell" by Desire is a haunting introspection of Driver's powerless control over his own mind ("I do nothing but think of you", "you keep me under your spell", "do you think this feeling will last forever?") , and "A Real Hero" by College is Driver's transformation into "a real hero" and "a real human being". Brilliant.

Unfortunately, masterpiece is an overused word, and thus unfitting for Drive. Jewish mobsters Bernie and Nino are typical single-minded personalities, stereotypical villains we've seen in commercial gangster/crime films in the 90s. Shannon also somewhat acts as a service to the plot, but at least he can represent the little friendship Driver has. Flimsy and not fully realized, these criminals fall flat compared to the protagonists in Goodfellas (1990) and The Godfather (1972). If these characters were given dimensionality and more time to develop, Drive could have easily become the masterpiece it never was.

I think why Drive is so underappreciated among the general audience is due to marketing and preconceptions. The trailer takes practically all the violence and gore present in the one and a half hour runtime and compacted it into two and a half minutes. It is perhaps the worst false advertisement I've seen for the last ten years or so, as audiences will walk into the theaters thinking Drive is a simple Friday night crime/thriller with car chase sequences and a conventional story. Ryan Gosling too! When viewers realized they were wrong, they didn't hesitate to look for hidden context or metaphorical meaning, and instead simply dismissed it as a poorly made film. Of course, I'm not talking about all moviegoers, but I'm certain a vast majority had a thought process similar to this.

Nevertheless, Drive will stand the test of time. I'm sure of it.

Pickpocket (1959)

A Man Imprisoned

[10/10 · 21 February 2019]

Whereas in A Man Escaped (1956) the protagonist is imprisoned literally and free metaphorically, in Pickpocket the protagonist is free literally but imprisoned metaphorically. Both their literal states then transform into their metaphorical state- as in most of Bresson's films, the soul triumphs.

Though contrary to my previous statement, Bresson does not hesitate with reality. In fact, he once stated in an interview, he is "obsessed with reality". His portrayal of objects and movements are simple, but precise, as the tangible often is. This is best depicted in an elegantly coordinated sequence a little over halfway through the film, where Michel and his accomplices pickpocket several passengers on a train. The "ballet of images", as Roger Ebert described it, was the most beautiful heist scene I have ever witnessed.

Like Travis Bickle in Scorsese's Taxi Driver (1976), Michel suffers from loneliness and perverse societal beliefs. He uses pickpocketing as an outlet for pleasure, and becomes addicted. He thinks he is somehow better than everyone else, and uses this as an excuse for committing crime. As ignorant as he may seem, he does bring up some good points that are of philosophical interest. For instance, Michel argues with the inspector: "Can we not admit that certain skilled men, gifted with intelligence, talent or even genius, and thus indispensable to society, rather than stagnate, should be free to disobey the laws in certain cases?" Of course, Michel is talking about himself as one of the "supermen".

You can especially see personal elements of Bresson's thoughts embedded in Michel's character when Michel explains regarding his "supermen" theory, "(the world) is already upside down. This could set it right." Bresson has repeatedly declared his pessimistic view of modern cinema, and how its theatricality (namely contrived emotion and expressive acting) is ruining what cinema is meant to be.

The film climaxes at an ethereal last scene, where Jeanne, the young lady Michel was helping (also a similarity to Taxi Driver where Travis Bickle protects for Iris), visits him in prison. Michel realizes he is in love, and they touch through the bars that separate them. He narrates, "Oh, Jeanne, what a strange way I had to take to meet you!"

The key to Bresson's style is transcendentalism. While he provides what happens, he forces the viewer to use their imagination to answer why it happened. For example, we are left in the dark on why Michel avoids visiting his ill mother. He works on the ironic, yet genius philosophy: if you bore the viewer enough, they will become entranced. I had to watch Pickpocket twice to fully come to terms to his uncompromising methodology, and even now I'm still struggling to describe the experience of watching a Bresson film with words.

I will say this though: it's freaking hilarious how the pickpocket never locks his own door.

Crazy Rich Asians (2018)

Asian Invasion

[7/10 · 18 September 2018]

Once upon a time, a film featuring an all-Asian cast was produced by a major Hollywood studio.

Crazy Rich Asians is certainly a breakthrough for racial representation in the American film industry. Since Wayne Wang's 1993 Joy Luck Club, no Hollywood studio movie has featured an all Asian or Asian-American cast. On top of that, Crazy Rich Asians posted the best rom-com box-office debut in three years, grossing an estimated 25.2 million dollars at North American theaters over opening weekend. Yet as impressive as it is commercially and culturally, is it good?

Essentially, what most rom-coms boil down to is whether or not they succeed in immersing the audience enough that they forget about the countless authenticity and conceptual flaws scattered throughout the film. They're silly, but you've got to admit, they're cute. But if the storyteller fails to hold your attention for just one second, just one, you'll realize, "Ok, what the hell am I watching."

Yet it's not the clichés (like the rich guy falls in love with a poor girl but doesn't care about her wealth, rather her "inner true self") that bother me, but rather the manner in which they are executed. I believe a cliché is only truly a cliché if you notice it. Some opinions identify the acting as the shortcoming, but I feel the cast did their job just fine. In reality, the problem lies in the script. Like the great Roger McKee once stated in his screenwriting manual, Story, "(Imagine) two attractive people sit opposite of each other at a candlelit table, the light glinting off the crystal wine-glasses and the dewy eyes of the lovers. Soft breezes billow the curtains. A Chopin nocturne plays in the background. The lovers reach across the table, touch hands, look longingly in each others' eyes, say, 'I love you, I love you' ... and actually mean it. This is an unactable scene and will die like a rat in the road."

It is simply impossible to act a scene so poorly written. In Crazy Rich Asians, there is a moment where Nick Young (Henry Golding) apologizes to Rachel Chu (Constance Wu) on a couch about how he screwed up or whatever. Rachel, at the beginning of the scene, is sobbing and won't even properly talk to Nick. Yet, in a matter of seconds, she forgives him, and life goes on as if nothing has happened. It's not the actors fault the scene felt fake. It's the screenwriter's.

As much as its comedy angered many critics, who emphasized the fact that most of the jokes were exploiting the Asian stereotype, I would disagree. The comedy was clearly not meant to be taken seriously, especially in such a light-hearted film. If anything, the humor calls attention to the stereotypes and how they relate to our society today. That's valuable.

On the other hand, Nick's mother, Eleanor (Michelle Yeoh), is awfully flawed. She acts as the antagonist of the film, opposing Nick and Rachel's relationship. Since Eleanor is strongly against the relationship, Nick is presented with a dilemma of choosing love or family and money, the three primary motifs of the film. But before they even reveal his choice, we already know his choice. Love will triumph over family and money. It's too predictable. The reason for this predictability factor is that Eleanor simply doesn't provide a strong enough antagonist. She displays such a weak and powerless sense for family, so weak that it feels like there's no opposing force to the protagonist. She even seems to care more about money, boasting a mansion furnished with lavish chandeliers and paintings. And as we know from 99% of commercial movies, greed for money never prevails.

For the protagonist's victory to be marvelous and beautiful, the more menacing the antagonist has to be. The harder the struggle, the more glorious the triumph. For example, in great love stories such as Casablanca (1942) or La La Land (2016), we have no idea what the outcome will be because the conflicting values against the protagonist are so persuasive and dominant, so much so that victory for the protagonist seems impossible. Or is it?

Despite these faults, one of Crazy Rich Asians' greatest achievements is the beautiful production and costume design. From the extravagant sets to the luxurious clothing, this film does a magnificent job of producing an immersive and believable environment for the audience.

Overall, Crazy Rich Asians is a great start for Asians in Hollywood. The clichés and unconvincing characters are so typical in a modern rom-com that there's nothing really to criticize the film about. Originality and ambition is always encouraged, but it's ambitious enough already to feature an all-Asian cast. These flaws and imperfections should not worry us at all; they only serve as a reminder that we still have things to work on. After all, like Rachel finally stands up to Eleanor at the end, Asian filmmakers are finally challenging Hollywood for racial representation. "Bok Bok, Bitch!"

Pan's Labyrinth (2006)

In Depth Analysis of Interpretations

[10/10 · 27 May 2018]

Sixth viewing: My appreciation only grows. Interpretations-

1st interpretation: Ophelia's world is real- happy ending.

If this interpretation is valid, we deal with themes of war and disobedience. Here, Pan's Labyrinth serves as an allegory against the totalitarian regime of Fascist Spain, symbolized by Vidal. Vidal is represented in the fantasy storyline by the Pale Man; they both sit at the end of the table at the feasts, and they are both violent and cruel. Furthermore, the Pale Man is an allegory to "Saturn Devouring his Son" by Fransisco Goya, as both Cronus and the Pale Man eat the heads off of their victims first. If Cronus represents the Pale Man, and the Pale Man represents Vidal, and Vidal represents Fascist Spain, Del Toro implies that Fascist Spain is just as cruel as Cronus; like how Cronus devours his own sons, Fascist Spain kills their own people.

2nd interpretation: Ophelia's world is her imagination- tragic ending (or is it? Some might say that she was better off dead than having to live with her terrible hardships).

If this interpretation is valid, we deal with themes of self-deception and how reality and fantasy can coexist. Here, Pan's Labyrinth explores how Ophelia creates a fantasy for herself to deal with the harsh realities of war. In this case, we can interpret the final fantasy sequence as Ophelia's imagination, her creation and the world she wished to live. Besides, you can tell she is still alive, as Del Toro shows her lips quiver right after the fantasy sequence.

Observations-

*The film features many smooth cuts, which Del Toro hides with trees and black screens. This could imply how reality and fantasy intertwine, supporting the second interpretation. BUT smooth cuts never go from fantasy to reality or reality to fantasy, only fantasy to fantasy or reality to reality. This could suggest the first interpretation, where reality and fantasy are separate.

*Vidal sees the monster under the bed, which supports the 1st interpretation. Yet at the same time, he does not see the faun at the end, which supports the 2nd interpretation. But again, Vidal has just consumed some kind of poison, so it may be his hallucinations in which he does not see the faun.

*Del Toro never cuts away from the violence, emphasizing the brutality of war.

*Cinematography is magnificent- dark, gloomy, blue colors in reality sequences to depict its dreariness, while bright, vibrant reds and oranges to depict enthusiasm. In the final scenes, the reds of blood and explosions stand out because the blues have become so common with the eye. Del Toro consciously had the blood and explosions to stand out to emphasize the violence of war.

*Notice how Del Toro establishes tension between Ophelia and Vidal; When Ophelia shakes with the wrong hand, Vidal points it out, forming an uneasy tone between them. This first encounter between the two main characters in their respective storylines is vital for their relationship in the future scenes, especially the climax.

Bottom line is, both interpretations are valid, and Del Toro utilizes both of them to deliver both of their respective themes.

As magnificent as this film is, there may be authenticity flaws. For example, why didn't Mercedes kill Vidal after she escaped? Is she still obedient to Vidal? Then why did he directly disobey his order at the end when Vidal asked to tell his son the time of his death? For me, it's clear why Del Toro left these authenticity flaws: to drive the story forward. Attempting to patch these flaws would've been at the expense of pacing, and the audience's engagement is more important than plot holes.

After all, these flaws are more or less hidden; visible only to those who know where to look.

A Quiet Place (2018)

Shh...

[8/10 · 22 April 2018]

"I love you. I've always loved you."

These are the last words signed by John Krasinski's character (Lee Abbott) in his directorial debut, A Quiet Place (2018). The audience is hit with the emotional core of the whole film, a father confessing his love for his daughter before he sacrifices himself for her life. His courageous decision answers the question that the film poses from the beginning: "How far are parents willing to go to save their children?" We realize that the father, even after witnessing his daughter getting her brother killed, still loves her, and would trade his own life for hers.

Although it's a theme that's powerful, it's also shallow, underdeveloped, and used way too many times before. Krasinski has stated several times the film was about family, not horror, and yet he still does not expand on his theme more than: "A parent would kill themself for their children." Even if it may resonate with some audience members, it's silenced in their vast collection of scenes they've seen where a person sacrifices themself for a loved one.

But A Quiet Place is far from unoriginal. The premise is, quite simply, one of the greatest horror ideas I've ever heard of. The complete absence of sound creates suspense by itself, where even the slightest sound is noticed by the viewer. Thus, Krasinski possessed total control of the audience, able to manipulate what the audience predicts or doesn't. He can tell us when to be scared, when to be sad, when to look, or when to listen. Notice how Krasinski tells us a monster is near; he doesn't let us see it, but rather lets us hear noises of it thundering on the floor above them.

Unfortunately, the score subtracted from the premise. During too many scenes was the music overpowering and unnecessary. Joel and Ethan Coen executed the score perfectly in their masterpiece, No Country for Old Men (2007). How? They didn't use one. It would've been interesting if A Quiet Place featured no music, but it's clear the score should've at least been eased.

The atmosphere wasn't established well either. For the first half, it was ambiguous whether or not the family is alone, which is altogether unnecessary. As the audience, we adapt to an environment by learning about it, isolated or populous. When this information is withheld, we cannot fully immerse into a situation. After we encounter the suicidal old man, we realize they aren't alone, forcing us to readapt to the environment.

One way of correcting this flaw was setting the film in a suburb where a neighborhood of families reside, thus also allowing additional creative possibilities. For instance, Krasinski could have the families interact and communicate, and we can see how each family evolves. Since not every family is identical, the camera can vary points of view and contrast the different lives of each family. Some families may be more sympathetic than others. Some families may be crueler than others. Maybe a father of another family was faced with the same choice Krasinski's character had; sacrificing himself for his child, or to watch his child die. And maybe he chooses the latter. Screenwriters would address this as an "Ironic Controlling Idea", presenting the positives and negatives of an issue. This would also add depth to the theme, and therefore patching the film's first flaw.

Technically, A Quiet Place is magnificent. The performances are excellent, most notably by the young actress Millicent Simmonds. She plays the deaf daughter (Regan Abbott), and as she is deaf in real life, fits the role perfectly. She's somewhat enigmatic, but also warm hearted-so when her father confesses he loved her all along, her personality adds to the emotional punch. John Krasinski and Emily Blunt are also married with two children in real life, which explains such honest performances. There's a beautiful scene in the film featuring their genuine emotions, where they slowly dance away to Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" in their basement. Despite the horror surrounding them, Emily (Evelyn Abbott) tenderly lends him one of her earbuds so they could temporarily exist in a world together with sound.

Krasinski is a master at small touches. Not only does Evelyn's pregnancy create yet another element of suspense to the film, but the birth also serves as a metaphor for the regeneration of the family. When Evelyn leaves a nail at the end of the basement stairs, Krasinski further builds suspense by cutting to a close up of it. All hell breaks loose when Evelyn's water breaks and she steps on the nail, reassuring both anticipations. She then cleverly escapes upstairs by deflecting the monster with a timer, and lies in a bathtub to deliver the baby. Notice the composition of a superb shot where she lies in the bathtub on the left of the screen, with the staircase just to her right. As we focus on her suffering, we spot the monster's hand slowly crawl up the staircase next to her. Masterful cinematography, direction, and acting, all in one shot. Finally, after the birth, the nail at the bottom of the basement stairs is never mentioned again. We don't know if anyone took it out, but we suspect it's still there. And every time a family member walks down those stairs, we hold our breath in anticipation. Krasinski holds the shot a little while longer to tease us, but no one ever steps on it. After briefly satisfying our expectations, Krasinski manipulates us once again. From setup to aftermath, the bathtub scene is immaculate.

It reminds me of a quote the legendary Alfred Hitchcock once said: "I enjoy playing the audience like a piano." That is, of course, because Hitchcock was the "master of suspense", and his manipulation techniques are just incredible-but Krasinski is not far off. A Quiet Place is not a masterpiece-nor is it anywhere near it, but Krasinski is obviously trying. He's established himself as an up and rising talent, and we should encourage more directors like him. We should encourage the Andersons and Tarantinos, the Cuarons and Linklaters, the Nolans and Chazelles. After all, who are we if we can't protect them?

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

Legendary

[10/10 · 14 April 2018]

A stand-alone monument in cinema history, Stanley Kubrick's magnum opus 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) is an undeniable masterpiece. 2001 not only shattered science fiction genre conventions, but gave cinema a whole new meaning. From the grandiosity of its futuristic idea to its ambitious execution, 2001 isn't concerned with entertaining us- but rather to inspire us with awe. I've never seen a person say, "2001: A Space Odyssey? I don't think I've seen it... oh wait, the one with like, the spaceships and stuff?", while most movies today are forgotten once the credits roll. What viewers must understand is that 2001 not the type of movie where you "get it" or not, nor is it designed to thrill us with flashy special effects- but as Kubrick said, is "...intended to be an intensely subjective experience that reaches the viewer at an inner level of consciousness." In it of itself, exploring the philosophical and scientific arenas of mankind while serving as a groundbreaking achievement both on a conceptual and technical level is a hell of an accomplishment, but to transcend the audience to a whole new dimension all in one- that's sheer genius at its highest form.

At its premiere, 2001 polarized critics and audiences alike. Walkouts numbered well over 200, including Rock Hudson who asked, "Will someone tell me what the hell this is all about?" The New York Times remarked, "Somewhere between hypnotic and immensely boring." "Superb photography major asset to confusing, long-unfolding plot," Newsday commented. Renowned critic Pauline Kael even went as far as calling 2001 "trash masquerading as art". It's understandable, though. In a time in which excitement revolving around interstellar exploration and extra-terrestrial life was everyday talk, audiences came into 2001 expecting answers. When will we reach the moon? What does the future hold? Are we alone? To their great surprise, 2001 did the paradoxical; leaving more questions to answer than answered questions.

Even though the late 60s marked the height of technological optimism, Kubrick saw ahead, highlighting the potential negatives of technological advancement. Notice the contrast between how apes and humans approach the monolith. The apes approach it with dignity, respect, and mindfulness. The humans approach it with arrogance, grouping astronauts in front of the monolith to take a picture. Since the monolith represents the incomprehensible (man, with his limited senses, cannot comprehend the absence (perfect black) of color or light), Kubrick may be suggesting the manner in which we handle new information is careless and hasty, emphasized in the Clavius base briefing. Scientists discuss how to distribute this exciting news to the public, for "if the facts were prematurely and suddenly stated without adequate preparation and conditioning", as stated by Dr. Heywood Floyd (William Sylvester), it may cause "cultural shock and social disorientation". It's a significant message to the anxious people of 1968 to perceive fresh information precisely and draw conclusions logically.

Yet apes are not much better. They're not willing to share food and water with their fellow apes, and with the discovery of bones as weapons, kill their own race for a puddle of water- possibly foreshadowing our own demise if we continue to advance artificial intelligence. Because like our ancestors, at heart, mankind has been and will always be selfish.

Far before The Terminator (1984) or The Matrix (1999) accentuated the dangers of artificial intelligence, there was 2001. H.A.L 9000, voice played by Douglas Rain, was ingeniously crafted into one of the most terrifying villains in film history. There's something about his calm voice, unpredictability, and especially, his omniscient single red eye that's so frightening. Kubrick utilizes one of his favorite filmmaking devices to compare artificial intelligence with humans: irony. Neither Dave Bowman (Keir Dullea) or Frank Poole (Gary Lockwood) display much emotion throughout the film, while H.A.L, albeit a machine, exhibits some while pleading for life singing "Daisy" (which, by the way, is a heart-wrenching scene) and murdering his crew members. There are clear connotations of humanity's fate when H.A.L attempts to kill Frank, Dave, and the hibernating crew members. Yet H.A.L, contrast to what he may think, is not perfect. If he was incapable of miscalculating even the slightest bit, he wouldn't have gotten himself killed. Kubrick implies that artificial intelligence has not yet reached the level of annihilating the human race, but if we are not careful, they soon will.

This idea coincides with the perplexing final sequence, resembling man reaching the next stage of evolution. After the famous "Star Gate" sequence, Dave is enlightened in a room. The setting hints at the Enlightenment Era, exquisitely decorated in 18th century style and embellished with lavish paintings and furniture. Notice how the room is solely lit through the transparent ground, establishing a heavenly environment. The eerie silence is ominous, magnifying the mystical aura that is ever so present in the timelessness of the final scene. As Dave exits his EVA pod, he watches himself age rapidly through one-point perspective. He knocks over a wine glass while eating, suggesting that man, no matter how advanced, will keep making mistakes. As he lays on his deathbed later, he reaches out to the monolith, alluding to Adam reaching out to God in Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam. After man is enlightened, he inevitably dies.

A pessimistic ending? No. Man is then transported back to Earth as a "Space Baby", an infinitely more advanced race, marking a new age of evolution. A masterful stroke of genius, Kubrick ends hopeful, giving us another chance to improve on our mistakes. Or is it hopeful? Is he implying that civilization is evolving badly? Or is he suggesting that civilization will NEVER evolve? There are multiple interpretations of the ending, and it's a question for you to answer.

There is such a great deal of symmetry in 2001's composition throughout the film, possibly suggesting the equilibrium present in the universe. The painstakingly slow pace also compliments the exactness of its harmony, practically forcing you to admire its artistry. While Andrei Tarkovsky's work would breathe with such organic and poetic beauty, Kubrick's artificial visual fluidity mesmerizes the eye with meticulous precision and thoroughness. Each shot, averaging 13.6 seconds, possesses a sense of purity and perfection that can only be achieved through the medium of cinema.

But of course, it's impossible not to talk about 2001 without mentioning one aspect. The visual effects are so unanimously praised that it's hopeless to even try to describe how groundbreaking and influential they were. Hopeless. I can talk for days about the impeccable zero-gravity effects, clever rotating sets, fastidiously constructed spaceships, the brilliant use of slit-scan photography for the psychedelic Star Gate sequence, or how it pioneered the use of front projection with retroreflective matting, but what's the point? You don't need me to appreciate 2001's immaculate visuals.

Finally, the choice of music is outstanding. Originally, Alex North was appointed to score the film, but Kubrick turned it down in post-production. Critic Roger Ebert explains it perfectly, "North's (rejected) score, which is available on a recording, is a good job of film composition, but would have been wrong for 2001 because, like all scores, it attempts to underline the action-to give us emotional cues. The classical music chosen by Kubrick exists outside the action. It uplifts. It wants to be sublime; it brings a seriousness and transcendence to the visuals."

"But why all the slow parts?" asks the one who fell asleep. Primarily, to establish tone. Unlike the low-budget commercial science fiction movies preceding it, 2001 was meant to be taken seriously. It symbolizes a quest for whether God exists or not, challenges humanity's fate, and questions evolution as a whole. If each shot's average length was two seconds and there was some sappy romantic love subplot mixed in between, the whole film would've been a mess. Space isn't fast-paced like we see in most movies. Space is slow-really, really, slow. The addition of three minutes and seventeen seconds of a black screen in the beginning was also pure genius, a signal for casual moviegoers to get out of the theater now and save your time.

Thankfully, its ingenuity was gradually recognized, and it's now widely regarded as one of the greatest and influential films of all time. It stands at an impressive #6 on the BFI "Sight and Sound" Critics' poll in 2012, ties for 2nd in the Director's poll, places 15th on AFI's 100 Years... 100 Movies, and tops the Online Film Critics Society list of "greatest science-fiction films of all time".

2001: A Space Odyssey breaks almost every rule there is in filmmaking. The first half drags, the dialogue is unnatural, the static camera creates no visual interest, there are barely any emotional punches, characters are monotonous, and none of the protagonists, if there even are, have dimensionality, arcs or epiphanies. Nonetheless, it's transcendental and sublime, awe-inspiring and thought-provoking, visually revolutionary, technically impeccable, monumentally imaginative, substantially rich, and way ahead of its time, thriving with unparalleled originality and ambition.

Only a few films will live forever. 2001 is one of them. Happy 50th birthday.

Phantom Thread (2017)

Elegantly Crafted Masterpiece

[10/10 · 27 December 2017]

Intimate, delicate, and a beautifully crafted masterpiece. Paul Thomas Anderson manages to expresses an artist's creative journey through threads of fashion and romance with such subtlety that it could only be conveyed through the medium of film. An atmosphere reminiscent of Kubrick's achievements, this romantic odyssey illustrates a unique perspective of love; a perspective in which love is shaped and manipulated by the fragile strings of each character's hearts.

To begin with, I will praise an awfully disregarded aspect of "Phantom Thread": the cinematography and direction. The style and manner in which Paul Thomas Anderson uses silence and long takes is ingenious, and as stated above, was most likely inspired from Kubrick's works. Similar to the quote, "The less you say, the more your words will matter," the more silence, the more each line will signify. The more long takes, the more each short take will signify. Therefore, this method permits a greater control over the variety of dramatic effects; and in turn, the audience's emotions. Anderson also utilized this technique in many of his other films, including "The Master", "Magnolia", and his masterpiece, "There Will Be Blood".

Of course, this strategy doesn't always serve well. The more the audience regards the dialogue, the more engaging the screenplay has to be. The more engaging the screenplay is, the more compelling the performances have to be.

Yet "Phantom Thread" has all of this. Magnificent lead performances by Daniel Day-Lewis and Vicky Krieps, a strong and often overlooked supporting performance by Lesley Manville, and a sharp, dense original screenplay written by Paul Thomas Anderson himself. A few sprinkles of comedy are also blended in the script, which is always valuable for a romance. Not to forget the costume design either, which was essential to establish a post-war 1950s London environment.

And finally, the score. Arguably the strongest part of the film, the score possesses Paul Thomas Anderson's signature strange aura that is found in several of his other films. It's not a coincidence that one of his most frequent collaborators is Jonny Greenwood, who composed the score for this film, "There Will Be Blood", and many others. While most movies nowadays would use music to heighten drama, Paul Thomas Anderson rejects the common norm; valuing music to form an atmosphere. This atmosphere is crucial in almost all of his works, creating an eerie tone for a mystery that drives the story forward.

A transcendental and sublime work of art so remarkably subtle- delicately transfixing the audience ever so slightly, exploring the convoluted depths of an artist's obsession, and expanding cinema's horizons for miles of wonder- all woven beneath the intertwined threads of the phantom.

Farewell, Daniel Day-Lewis. We will miss you.

Mulholland Drive (2001)

Incredible

[10/10 · 11 November 2017]

A film so polarized, that "The New York Observer" labeled Mulholland Drive as a "moronic and incoherent piece of garbage", while BBC noted it as the greatest film of the 21st century (so far). Even though I agree with the latter, I can understand the dislikes.

David Lynch completely transformed a seemingly clichéd story about an aspiring, perky actress who seeks fame in Hollywood to a horrifying surrealistic roller coaster that never ends. This transformation was so subtle that it kept viewers engaged throughout, emotionally contained, yet sporadic simultaneously. Angelo Badalamenti's beautifully unsettling score, a combination of minors and dissonance that represent the devastating collapse of Betty Elms, does well emphasizing Lynch's signature dark tone in such a psychedelic manner that viewers are able to relate to Betty's catastrophic hallucinations.

Was the first two-thirds of the film a dream? Betty Elms and Diane Selwyn were the same people? While there are countless other interpretations of the film, I, like most of the critics and audience, subscribe to the explanation above. The pieces of the puzzle seem to fit together so unbelievably well that it must have been Lynch's vision. To confront the fact that Diane was a sexually frustrated failed actress, she envisaged her own perfect life. For example, during my favorite scene of the film, Betty auditions in front of a crowded small room, where everyone praises her abilities. Except for Bob Brooker, the same director who didn't award Diane Selwyn the lead part in "The Sylvia North Story". Yet in this version of the events, Brooker is portrayed as incompetent, and easily deducted as disrespected by the side glances he receives from his peers. From this, we can determine that Diane blames the incapable director as her reason for not obtaining the part for "The Sylvia North Story". Sensible. Furthermore, Betty imagines the hit-man as extraordinarily incompetent during the murder scene, clumsily setting off the fire alarm, and killing two more people than he was supposed to. This amateurish hit-man could be a reasonable justification for the option that Camilla was not killed in reality.

Then the backbone of this film could be centered around the idea, "We believe what we want to believe." Yet there are multiple other persuasive interpretations of the film that cannot be dismissed, such as the Mobius strip theory, parallel universes, and that the whole film is a dream. Even after 16 years of extensive research and analysis, audiences and critics still can't seem to agree on one interpretation that is more convincing than the next.

And don't even get me started on Naomi Watts' breathtaking lead performance. From the lesbian sex scenes with Laura Harring to the heart-stopping audition scene, Naomi Watts has displayed an incredible range of emotions and acting capabilities. After watching such a masterpiece, I highly doubt one will argue that cinema isn't art. Because even if you didn't enjoy it, even if you still don't understand it, you can't deny the fact that "Mulholland Drive" is one of the most astonishing and bold films of all time. Thank you, David Lynch.

Silencio.