At a time like this where the coronavirus pandemic has forced us into isolation, it would make sense to watch Contagion, a movie that chronicles the spread of a new virus and its immediate aftermath on society. But Todd Haynes’ 1995 film, Safe, not only does this on a microscopic level with a lone protagonist, it is much more reflective of this year’s politics.

The very first impression that Carol White—played by Julianne Moore—gives off is that of a jaded wife. No dialogue is required when a minute into Safe, we see Carol in bed with her husband, Greg (Xander Berkeley) having sex. The framing of this sets up the story perfectly well—through a bird’s eye view, Carol’s faceless husband continues to thrust his body while Carol stares at the ceiling. Our eyes go to Carol’s face as her lifeless expression conveys so much—more than any other verbal exchange between the two would. After her husband “finishes,” she gives him a kiss on the cheek, a sort of protocol-ish way of saying “good job, you’re the man.” 

Safe tells the story of Carol, a homemaker who leads a mundane life within the suburbs of San Fernando Valley. It’s clear when we follow her through the day that the term “homemaker” can be applied loosely. Besides ordering furniture or going to the cleaner’s, she doesn’t have much to do because her husband is affluent enough to hire a maid that does all the cooking and cleaning. And so, she fills the gaps within her days by attending the gym, accompanying her husband to luncheons, and meeting with the other dolled-up housewives. Her purpose in life aligns with that of a trophy wife, but instead of donning a superficial smile, she feels empty and stilted, not fully engaging with her husband or her friends.

In the beginning of the film, it seems that we know which direction Todd Haynes is going down: the unsatisfied housewife boxed into this forever role of domesticity tries to break free. Carol White is a Jeanne Dielman. She is an April Wheeler. However, because she has her own maid and a stepson that’s already in his pre-teens, Carol is reduced to an accessory that doesn’t meet the norms of a typical mid-20^th century housewife, norms that we do see in Jeanne Dielman and in Revolutionary Road. Julianne Moore embodies this with naïve eyes that makes her look lost and a high-pitched tone in her breathy voice that registers child-like innocence.

Things take a turn, though, when Carol observes signs of illness. She suffers breathing problems while driving down a polluted highway, her nose starts bleeding after getting a perm, and she suffers some sort of panic attack at a baby shower. After those around her react indifferently towards her ailments and doctors find no explanation, Carol comes across a flyer that takes her to a support group where she concludes that she’s sensitive to the chemicals that permeate her environment. Now, this takes place in 1987, a time where anxiety and depression were still relatively taboo. Today’s audience could infer that Carol must be suffering internally with an unsatisfying family life and rituals that confine her. Unfortunately, these topics of conversation are never addressed, so it’s easier to find a scapegoat like chemicals instead of confronting something that’s so blatantly obvious to audience members. Once she latches onto this reasoning behind her symptoms, there’s a certain pep to her step. While for others this illness would feel debilitating and restricting, Carol finds enlightenment with her ailments. She carefully monitors what she eats, stops applying makeup, and stops driving her car. It’s apparent through her devotion to this new lifestyle that Carol is finally able to fill the void of emptiness in her life with a newfound purpose. This purpose, however, is short-lived when her symptoms start to severely affect her immunity.  

She eventually seeks treatment at the Wrenwood Center, a treatment community in the middle of the desert that encompasses the film’s third act. The center is run by Peter Dunning (Peter Friedman), who is a wealthy HIV-positive man living in a mansion overlooking the complex. But instead of promoting dialogue between its inhabitants, Dunning’s approach is to gaslight them by placing the blame of the illness onto themselves. He exclaims that, “if your immune system is damaged, it’s because you allowed it to be.” This, combined with his Orwellian rejection of outside sources (newspapers and television), is enough to make Wrenwood resemble more of a cult than a treatment facility. The fact that Carol is enlightened and inspired by Dunning’s cultish behavior only underlines her childish innocence. Her desperation for answers leaves her blinded by those who wish to take advantage of her. Julianne Moore’s reticent portrayal of Carol really illustrates the fact that rather than standing up for herself and speaking up about what’s really on her mind, Carol is really looking for another person to fill in the blank spaces for her.

What’s sad and essentially the most disturbing aspect of the film is the ending. From Carol’s perspective, she’s happier in Wrenwood than at her home in the beginning of the movie, further emphasizing the fact that her husband and suburban lifestyle were a source of her anxieties. But from the audience’s POV, this happiness seems very short-term because there’s no relief in the methods that Dunning relays onto his patients; there’s a scene where the patients are gathered in a circle and Dunning reduces one of them to tears, ultimately inflicting emotional trauma. When Carol stands in front of the mirror in her isolated igloo, she stares at her reflection and declares: “I love you.” This comes off as a temporary manifestation of what she’s been taught, but the camera suggests otherwise. Her tired eyes and bleak lighting enshrine her and point out a false resolution. She might be in a better place mentally, but for how long? After all, the camera points outs Carol’s isolation she must feel in this enclosed igloo, almost mirroring her life back in San Fernando Valley.

Considering this was made in 1995 and the film takes place in 1987, it’s easy to point out the various lenses that Safe can be viewed through. Allegory of the AIDs epidemic. History of postmodern feminism, where the repercussions of a patriarchal lifestyle are documented. Cautionary tale about the harmful effects of a chemically dependent society. However, all of these comparisons mesh into one singular narrative where the various thematic angles create an exciting and eye-opening viewing experience. Even today, its themes of isolation and inabilities to combat illness make it very pertinent to the year of 2020. 

When I watch it, I find that Safe resonates in the year of 2020 because of its honest portrayal of the toxicity of tribalism. The film is an in-depth look at a woman who is essentially a victim of her own environment. And as we see her try to seek autonomy from the chains of suburban patriarchy, we simultaneously witness her fall victim to “an equally debilitating self-help culture that encourages patients to take sole responsibility for their illness and recovery.” And with that, the film evokes an appropriate question at the film’s conclusion: are we ever autonomous or are we subject to tribalism? In today’s political climate amidst coronavirus, if you deviate somewhat from certain views of your political affiliation, you are immediately ostracized or, in today’s terms, cancelled. GOP Rep. Liz Cheney was attacked by her fellow House Republicans for disagreeing with the President’s foreign policy and showing support for Dr. Anthony Fauci. If a liberal, as Bari Weiss states, is “to be anything less than Defund the Police,” they are immediately considered a “heretic.” When Carol’s physical symptoms start to show up around people within her bubble, she is greeted with indifferent stares and looks of disgust by her wealthy husband and her supposed friends. Her symptoms inadvertently challenge the status quo, which forces her to leave this tribe of affluence and white picket fences. It’s strange that with all the money that comes from her husband, she is not able to find answers and has to travel to a barren piece of land populated by not so wealthy sick people. And this new destination really points out the reality of tribalism, that one’s identity is really filtered through the lens of his or her respective tribe. It makes sense that the leader of this group is in charge of the Wrenwood Center; his intimidating label gives him the green light to prey on the vulnerable. It’s never explained whether or not Carol is actually being healed—we just need to take her word for it. And when she does explain to everyone else in the center how relieved she’s feeling, it comes off as wooden. She still speaks in her childish breathy voice accompanied by those sorrowful eyes, but it’s her pauses and stumbles that reflect the speech’s artificiality. It’s more of a nervous effort to appease Dunning and the rest of the tribe who have surrounded her with such attentiveness. And when she goes to bed that same night, we know the future looks just as bleak as her life in San Fernando Valley. Even though there’s a constant reminder from her or her husband that this retreat is temporary, she never wants to go back home, and it’s reasonable to infer that she might just stay there permanently. Her identity has molded itself for the sake of this new tribe she’s found herself in.

Safe is the last word I’d use to describe the year of 2020. From bush fires to pandemics to police brutality to incompetent leadership, it’s hard to stay calm when the world we call home is on fire literally and figuratively. It’s Todd Haynes’ Safe that perfectly captures this isolating atmosphere that we’ve become so familiar with. There’s a quality within Safe that makes it seem like it’s always levitating. From the film’s gothic space music to Julianne Moore’s appropriately subdued performance to even Todd Haynes’ unsettling yet dreamy direction, the film can still be appreciated as an intriguing work of fiction. Yes, Safe will inevitably evoke sociological questions and interpretations that pertain to today’s climate, but its execution is an achievement in cinematic storytelling that will warrant future viewings. 

                                                   ©Mosfilm

The prospect of writing about Andrei Tarkovsky is an intimidating one, to say the least. His films are not easily accessible for his stories possess a very non-linear structure. But he is able to get away with it due to the magic of cinema. You watch one of his films and conclude that the only way his stories can be told is through the moving image—not through writing, not through poetry, and not through theatre. It’s as if cinema was made for Tarkovsky as much as Tarkovsky was made for cinema.

What exactly comprises Tarkovsky movies? Besides a nonlinear structure that defies rules of conventional storytelling, other common characteristics include woozy montages, excessively long takes, historical film reels, symbolic imagery, and a dreamy atmosphere—as he states, it’s important to have a precise rhythm.[1] The subjects in his movies usually embark on emotional and physical journeys toward ominously unfamiliar destinations, essentially searching for some type of clarity/fulfillment; it is through these characters’ voyages that Tarkovsky poses his deeply philosophical questions about human existence to the audience. Tarkovsky films are so singular that I can’t help but chuckle when Wikipedia classifies them as Soviet films. They’re really the complete antithesis of Soviet films. If anything, they are anti-Soviet films because they abandon the norms that characterize Soviet film culture. Coming from a pair of Soviet immigrant parents myself, I’m pretty much well aware of these conventions because I grew up watching them, but to give an example: The Diamond Arm (Бриллиантовая рука). This 1969 comedic heist film is the absolute epitome of standard Soviet cinema. And what characterizes this standard? Obviously, a very linear story with an easy-to-follow structure. The color scheme is very saturated with vibrant colors, unlike the neutral–sometimes, bleak–colors of Tarkovsky’s hypnotically drawn-out shots.

A stark contrast can best be summarized by the number of cuts. Within the first half-hour, The Diamond Arm consisted of 173 shots. Compare that to Tarkovsky’s 1979 Stalker which possesses a 163-minute running time; within these 163 minutes, the film contains 142 shots.[2] And so, when Tarkovsky rejects the status quo, how does he tell his stories? He does it through nature. Through the sound of water droplets and the site of birds in flight, Tarkovsky conveys this notion that the purpose of human existence is to forge relationships that inevitably cause the manufacturing of memories which live on forever, long after death.

I think Andrei Tarkovsky most evidently captures this moral struggle he possessed with human existence within Mirror, which makes sense, considering it’s his most personal work. Up until Mirror’s release in 1975, Tarkovsky had tackled historical fiction, religious biography, and science fiction. But Mirror marked the first time where the director turned inward and tried to make sense of his life up until that point. However, it’d be inaccurate to label Mirror as a traditional autobiography. Although Tarkovsky bases most of the pivotal events in the film on his own life, he creates a fictional narrative centered around a dying man named Alexei—not Andrei—as we the viewers become witnesses to three significant time periods within the man’s life. It’d be more accurate to deem the film’s story as depicting Andrei’s visual imagination.[3]

Tarkovsky explains his intentions with his film within the first several minutes during the prologue. Here, we see a speech therapist curing a stuttering teenage boy as he ultimately declares: “I can speak!” The difficulty of personal expression for Andrei is made apparent with the boy’s stuttering, but with this final declaration, Tarkovsky is mentally liberated enough to confront elements of his life—or Alexei’s. And so, we journey with Alexei as he reflects through three distinct timeframes of his life: prewar (1935), wartime (1940s), and postwar (1960s-1970s). But because of Tarkovsky’s unique interpretation of time, the structure of the film isn’t simply a journey through the past told through flashbacks–the journey is rather intermittent and nonchronological. There’s never a clear indication of which time frame we’re watching as the story slips into and out of a period rather abruptly. And it doesn’t help matters when he casts the same actors for several pairs of key characters. For example, actress Margarita Terekhova plays not only the role of the young Alexei’s mother, Maria, during the prewar and wartime frames, but she also assumes the role of the adult Alexei’s wife, Natalia, during the postwar frame.

     Terekhova as Maria;                                    Terekhova as Natalia

While Tarkovsky loved Terekhova’s acting[4], it’s pretty evident that this was an artistic way of showing time’s omnipresence; a tongue-in-cheek moment occurs when it’s revealed that the reason why Natalia wishes to divorce Alexei is because she looks like his mother. This ties to Tarkovsky’s definition of time, which has nothing to do with history nor evolution. Instead, he describes it as “…a state: the flame in which there lives the salamander of the human soul.”[5] And how is time depicted? Through the construction of memories.

Tarkovsky implements elemental imagery in Mirror to illustrate how memories are so integral to our lives. A pretty significant example is outlined in the very shot that follows the black-and-white prologue. We cut to a young woman sitting on a wooden fence rail and smoking a cigarette as she stares out into the green field right in front of her. We eventually find out that this woman is Alexei’s mother during the prewar period as she solemnly waits for her husband—Alexei’s father—to come home. However, the way that Tarkovsky composes this image is not so casual. He approaches the back of her and all we see is her figure enshrined in an abundance of bright green vegetation.

We come to find out that the young Alexei is resting on a hammock just behind her; and so, this long tracking shot of his mother that opens the scene takes on a whole different meaning. It doesn’t just initiate the story, but it also frames a snapshot that Alexei has stored in his mind, a sight so memorable that the older Alexei is able to access it mentally and almost relish in its nostalgic beauty. The only manner in which postwar Alexei is able to access his history is through preciously stored memories—minute moments of time that have defined his existence. Tarkovsky is able to intertwine the past with the future by using an image like a burning barn in the midst of a rain shower. After the neighbors scream of their family barn catching fire, the camera pans past the barn engulfed in flames as rain pours down.

This almost creates a conflicting image as fire and water are two of the most opposing natural elements. But Tarkovsky’s execution creates an image of meditation and beauty, illustrating the synchronization of two contradicting concepts—the past and future. And just like the opening shot of Maria on the fence, we experience Alexei’s vivid recollection of this moment in time as we hear the cuckoo-clock, the glass bottle falling off the table, and consecutive raindrops coming down from the rooftop—details that showcase how much we are able to vividly recall moments of our life so effortlessly. This supports the notion that memories do not require us to mentally dig deep into the vaults of our mind in order to remember details; memories are embedded into our everyday lives. While they may not dictate our future, they exist symbiotically with our present, defining who we are and leaving behind our marks on earth.

Tarkovsky’s fascination with nature also helps flesh out his idea that human existence is not only guided by memories but also the acceptance of mortality. After all, it is truly after death that our legacies will be judged by others based on the memories we’ve cultivated. Tarkovsky reflects on death in a 1978 interview, stating, “I am convinced that life is only the beginning…I just know that a man who ignores death is a bad man.”[6] Believing that life is a precursor to something spiritually beyond our physical existence, Tarkovsky uses the motif of a bird to outline this notion. During the prewar time frame, Maria and a young Alexei visit a doctor’s house, but find that the doctor is not home, and instead, they acquaint themselves with the doctor’s wife. The wife offers Maria a hen for her journey back home but tells her that she must kill the bird herself because she’s too nauseous to do it. After Maria hesitantly kills the hen, there’s a monochrome vision of a cockerel escaping the house through the window. The flapping of its wings signifies that the hen has moved onto another dimension, supporting Tarkovsky’s theory on an afterlife. This scene serves precedes the ending in which Alexei is on his death bed during the postwar era. By this point, we’ve seen Alexei reflect on his entire life and make peace with the past. Through this, he accepts his own mortality, and so, he refutes the idea that he is a bad man. He reassures his mother sitting by him that, “everything will be alright.” And as he says this, he picks up a dying sparrow (Tarkovsky’s hand is actually holding the bird) and resurrects it, setting it free as it flutters into the atmosphere—all while Alexei takes his final breath. Much like the sparrow and the

cockerel in the vision, Alexei’s soul flies away and towards whatever lies ahead. It is because of the sparrow that Alexei has come to terms with his death and fully embraces the afterlife. By this gesture, a full circle has been achieved; Alexei has embraced his memories—what defined his life on Earth—by reliving them and now his memory will live on forever.

When Tarkovsky completed Mirror, he confronted the memories of his past and was finally granted peace, causing his stress to melt away.[7] And by depicting Alexei’s death as a peaceful transition, Andrei Tarkovsky stated that he too was ready; this proved to be prophetic when the cinema maverick passed nearly a decade after the film’s release at just the age of 54. Tarkovsky’s characteristic use of vivid natural imagery continues to evoke passionate reactions from audiences today. Never one to dwell on symbols, he always knew that the viewer was the final vital piece of the puzzle. After all, “a book read by a thousand different people is a thousand different books.”[8]

[1] Tarkovsky. Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema. U. Of Texas P., 2017. Pg. 113.

[2] https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0079944/trivia?ref_=tt_trv_trv

[3] Bird, Robert (15 April 2008). Andrei Tarkovsky: Elements of Cinema. Reaktion Books. ISBN978-1-86189-342-0. Pg. 1362.

[4] Tarkovsky. Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema. Pg. 131.

[5] Tarkovsky. Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema. Pg. 57.

[6] Gianvito, John (2006). Andrei Tarkovsky: Interviews. Univ. Press of Mississippi. ISBN978-1-57806-220-1. Pg. 47.

[7] Tarkovsky. Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema. Pg. 128.

[8] Tarkovsky. Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema. Pg. 177-178.

Weird is often an adjective that gets tossed around. It’s kind of a broad term, but yet, it immediately evokes a negative connotation. When something is outside of our realm of normalcy, we tend to label it as ‘weird’ or, unfortunately, elect it as President. Björk, whose music doesn’t fit the criteria of everyday pop music, falls under the former reaction. Because her music is vastly original that can alienate listeners of radio pop, it’s hard to label her as anything but weird. But Björk is a testament to how weird can be interesting and enticing and eye-opening and downright genius. Her unconventional vocal characteristics and constant knack for pushing musical boundaries attribute to her longevity within the music industry for the past 30 or so years.

Normally, we are drawn to music that most closely resonates with our ears. You could like hip-hop, but hate country. You may be an avid rock listener, but loath electronica. I guess that’s why Björk’s music is such an acquired taste; it doesn’t fall under a single genre as she is always exploring new styles and assuming different identities. Just look at her discography and you’ll realize that with each studio album, she has been a different artist with something very different to offer. She played the naïve and kooky girl with her 90s house and ambient-inspired Debut; she was the wide-eyed and bushy-tailed independent spirit with an appreciation for jazz and electroclash bangers in Post; she assumed the role of the loving warrior as she blended theatrical string arrangements with crisp electronic beats in Homogenic—my personal favorite; she was the shy and intimate lover in her hushed and lullaby-evoking Vespertine. She released these albums and personas with perfected craft into the world, which have fared extremely well with critics and her tight-knit fan base. And yet, she is still a polarizing musician among mainstream audiences. Part of it has to do with her musical diversity, another has to do with her extremely unorthodox style of singing influenced by the airy landscape that she is surrounded by in her home country of Iceland.

Björk (pronounced “Byerk…rhymes with jerk”) Guðmundsdóttir was born and raised in Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital. While attending school, she studied classical music and instruments like the piano and flute. Solo walks to and from school influenced her vocal characteristics as she would often sing to herself while trekking through steep hills and low valleys, “…singing quietly when I was next to the lava and then when I’d get up in a hill, the chorus would come and I’d sing louder.” This uninhibited style of singing was initially recognized during her time as a child singer (her actual first album was released when she was 11 and was composed mostly of covers in Icelandic), and then on a more prominent level, her early stints as lead singers for Icelandic post punk bands; the most prominent example being in the globally acclaimed single, “Birthday,” while fronting The Sugarcubes. Backed by quintessential ‘80s jangly guitars that were prominent during the era of noise pop, Björk lets out a howling scream in the chorus that transitions into a growl, and then finally into a high-pitched screech towards the end. Like the barren landscape of her homeland, Björk’s voice is very stripped-down and not super technical. It sounds like someone trying to explore the various aspects and quirks that make up the human voice. You almost have to adjust your ears because you’ve never quite heard a voice like it; it possesses the youthful innocence of a 16-year-old schoolgirl as well as the confidence of an old soul. It’s refreshingly not polished and, instead, transmits raw unadulterated emotion, all the while maintaining perfect pitch.

There’s a moment in Björk’s debut solo single, “Human Behaviour,” in which she perfectly articulates the unique stylings of her sound; at around 2:28, she sings, “And the compass wouldn’t help at all,” before letting out an explosive high-pitched scream that feels like a double-edged sword penetrating your spine. Towards the end of “Modern Things” off of Post, we hear a high-pitched dolphin-like squeal that completely catches us off-guard yet leaves us further intrigued by what we’re listening to. We also see the various ways in which Bjork utilizes strides in technology to further expand the limits of vocal production; on Biophillia and Vulnicura, she incorporates an audio software called Melodyne in order to create harmonies with her own voice, layering various pitches onto one another.

Like her persona, Bjork’s voice is an enigma—it’s untouchable. She can belt out a note and screech in the highest octave, and then, she can simmer down and whisper into the microphone a tune that will have you sink into your chair with its transcendental beauty; if you want the musical version of ASMR, then listen to Vespertine. And being a vocalist from a country in the middle of the Atlantic comes with its own quirks. The way she chooses to sing her lyrics is purposely slow, as she gives special attention to the words of her songs, giving life to consonants and sounds that we never knew existed. Whether it’s through the audibly satisfying R-sounds that she flutters or the gibberish that she effortlessly sings on instrumental breaks, Björk’s voice is undeniably unique and could never be replicated.

Another particular reason why Björk is such a maverick in the music world is that she produces and composes her own material. A drawback to this is that she rarely gets the credit she deserves for the time she sacrifices in order to create something wholly original; all you have to do is look at the landscape of female producers and it’s obvious to know why. Since the inception of charting music, musical compositions have become a playground for male producers: some of the best known include Max Martin, Timbaland, Rick Rubin, Trent Reznor, Diplo, Mark Ronson, Nile Rodgers, etc. Björk interestingly points out how Kanye West’s groundbreaking foray into electronic production with his Yeezus album was only made possible by the producers he surrounded himself with, exclaiming: “he got all the best beatmakers on the planet at the time to make beats for him.” Reading this comment, it’s not hard to agree with what Björk says, for music fans don’t necessarily question or dissect the production of Kanye albums; we see the music that he puts out and instantly deem Kanye a genius of experimental hip-hop mastery. But the reality is that without beatmakers like Daft Punk or Arca, there never would’ve been a Yeezus. The prospect of female auteurs seems to frighten the music industry and journalists alike. In that same interview with Pitchfork, Björk points out how Vespertine was a result of her using her laptop to write music as she collected microbeats for three years that helped comprise the entirety of the album. However, electronic duo Matmos was given higher credit than Bjork after the album’s release, even though their contributions came during the last two weeks of the album’s production.

There’s also the timeless quality to her music. Most people overuse timeless and apply it to anything that’s good or something that people are fond of. Timeless can be synonymous with popular but Bjork is not popular among everyday radio listeners—she has never scored a true hit in the American market. Music that’s deemed popular gets to be played on the radio because it reflects the state of music at the time of release. Today, the prevalence of trap music is reflected in the radio, whereas bubblegum pop was unavoidable in the late ‘90s and early 2000s, and grunge was a staple in the early ‘90s. The one thing that’s consistent in all of Bjork’s music is her ability to deviate from what’s popular and create something that’s solely her own. It’s hard to really put her music into a category, and so, playing her songs on the radio would probably confuse radio listeners, who typically appreciate music that’s spoon-fed to us with a shimmery surface. That’s why you never hear Radiohead on the radio. Her experimentation with different sounds and different themes as well as different collaborators cement her as a constant innovator, for no other artist can quite possibly be compared to Björk. Specifically, she is able blend the familiar with the unfamiliar, utilizing sounds that initially come off as inaccessible to create coherent melodies. For example, Venus as a Boy in Debut uses a broken bottle for its percussion that’s dramatically enhanced by Bollywood strings and Björk’s vocals. The entirety of Homogenic takes the complexities of classical string arrangements—the heart of the album—and seamlessly pairs them with crisp and cutting edge electronic beats—the backbone of the album. Vespertine uses music boxes and combines microbeats with domestic sounds (stepping on snow, shuffling cards, etc.). Volta goes full-on weird by pairing brass instruments with tribal melodies. And Utopia, her latest album, inhabits a bird’s nest with its focus on woodwind instruments and the literal sounds of birds chirping. All of these founding elements within Björk’s discography stem from the emotions that are meant to be conveyed with the respective albums; they are not concerned with blending in with popular sounds.

Björk is not for everyone. At times, it can be frustrating to get a grasp on her style of singing and her lyrics may elicit bewilderment with their use of absurd metaphors. In fact, I remember listening to Homogenic for the first time last year and being so puzzled by its conclusion. I had never heard music like that before. And I was curious. With a drive to comprehend this Icelandic pop artist, I continued to listen to the music and dissect its components. I realize now that Björk gives credit to her listeners. She knows that they are smart. Smart enough to not listen to her music on a surface level. Her music is theatrical, it’s out there, it’s not two-dimensional. Each album is a full-on storybook/cinematic experience with accompanying visuals and binding themes. To this day, I return to some of her songs and discover hidden layers as they are all so meticulously composed. Björk won’t necessarily make you dance on the dancefloor. Rather, she’ll make you think on the dancefloor. That’s why she is timeless, forever challenging the notion of what music can be.

Top 10 Favorite Tracks:

10) One Day from Debut (1993) – the lyrical ambiguity blends well with a bouncy synth that’s silky smooth and makes this track one of the most accessible Björk tracks; when she sings “I can feel it,” we feel it too—whatever ‘it’ is.

9) Oceania from Medúlla (2004) – coming from Björk’s most ambitious LP that utilizes the human voice in various forms (beatboxing, throat singing, choirs, etc.), this track is written from the perspective of an ocean as it synthesizes all of life and evolution; the vocal production is brilliant as the background choir genuinely likens to a school of fish gliding around the listener; Björk’s metaphors are oddly intelligent (“your sweat is salty…I am why.”).

8) Heirloom from Vespertine (2001) – crisp tinkering instruments played at a tempo that makes it sound like a samba; Björk is metaphorically quirky in this song as she narrates about a recurring dream she has where she equates singing to releasing glowing lights into the sky; the track’s texture is warm and dreamy.

7) Enjoy from Post (1995) – co-produced by Tricky, this trip-hop banger has Björk detailing the trepidations that can accompany sex; it’s playfully dark and hard-hitting with heart-racing percussions that precede a simple yet abrasive chorus.

6) Notget from Vulnicura (2015) – musically, the most theatrical song off the breakup album; Björk details the long-term repercussions of the end of a relationship, especially on the child the couple shares; when the strings kick in backed by an intense bass halfway through the track, you’re left breathless by its menacingly cinematic tone.

5) Thunderbolt from Biophillia (2011) – a slow-burner of a track that’s wildly ambitious with its use of a Tesla coil as the backing synth; the harmonies are mesmerizing and the track itself contains one of the Björk-est lyrics (“Scrape those barnacles of me!”).

4) Jóga from Homogenic (1997) – epic and grandiose, this track is the perfect example of what the album did so well: uniting opposing musical styles; its beginning contains sweeping strings that provide an orchestral vibe before descending into chaotic, glitchy electronica that makes it sound like a volcano spewing lava to the rhythm—which, of course, was Björk’s intention; the atmospheric outro evokes goosebumps as it feels like Björk is shouting/vocalizing from a mountaintop

3) Venus as a Boy from Debut (1993) – the vocals are on full display in this lo-fi ambient track; the Bollywood strings entice the listener and sound so cinematic  because they were recorded in a film studio; the tongue-in-cheek lyrics gel well with Björk’s flirtatious tone.

2) Stonemilker from Vulnicura (2015) – an impeccable way to open an album; the opening notes perfectly convey the tone that will permeate the remainder of the LP; unlike a typical breakup song, the lyrics detail the events and the emotions that precede an inevitable separation; the dramatic yet enchanting strings in the chorus are further enhanced by Arca’s electronic beats, creating a soundscape that’s heartbreakingly beautiful.

1) Hunter from Homogenic (1997) – it’s one thing to love a song for its catchiness and memorable hook; it’s another thing to love a song because it intrigues the hell out of you; to me, I don’t know what I love the most about the song, but I keep revisiting Hunter because of the craftsmanship; it’s so precisely and meticulously layered, serving as an opening track to an album in which the author announced to the world that she was not just a European pop star, but a musician and a composer who wanted to explore new sounds; the malevolent bassline, icy vocals, skipping electronic beats, snake-like percussions, and militaristic strings are so fun to unpack and digest.

©Universal Pictures

SPOILERS!

We’re all familiar with the saying: “A picture is worth a thousand words.” It refers to the
notion that an image has limitless meanings, and is open to various interpretations by
different pairs of eyes. No other filmmaker’s body of work best fits this notion than the
films of David Lynch. Of course, this is no surprise considering the fact that Lynch was
trained as a painter at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, where he was able to
hone his skills as a filmmaker after wanting to see his paintings move. His fixations on
dream and dreamlike imagery have influenced the way viewers watch his films, stirring
up conversations about these films’ plotlines years after they’ve been released. It
shouldn’t be a surprise that a painter has the ability to puzzle its audience, but when a
filmmaker does it, it completely defies the expectations of what a film should be; usually,
movies do the work for us by laying out X-Y-Z. What’s it about?…a question that
moviegoers are able to answer when leaving the theater. The answer then becomes
this elaborate talking point of what the plot is and how the characters drive the storyline
to a potential resolution. So many films have a tendency to spoon-feed us the narrative
that by the time we finish the film, we have a clear map formed in our head of what we
started with, what was thrown at us, and how we were able to overcome this
bombardment with the film’s ending.

Now, try asking that aforementioned question to someone who’s just finished watching
or has already watched David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive. For example, if one were to
ask me to explain the story of Mulholland Drive, I’d probably inhale, widen my eyes,
and purse my lips apart, but then I’d back track and gaze off into confusion because I’d
realize that I don’t really know what the the movie is about; there is no linear storyline,
characters initially come off as campy and two-dimensional, and the movie is presented
in dreamy vignettes that evoke the style of Pulp Fiction. However, now that I have time
to reflect and formulate my own thoughts, I guess the one word to truly describe
Mulholland Drive is control—specifically, a filmmaker’s control over his audience’s
emotions.

There is one particular scene that completely sets the tone for everything that follows
and as a result, it establishes Lynch’s intentions for us the viewers—and that’s the first
diner scene. At this point of the film, we are trying to attain any sort of grasp on the
film’s narrative. What we do know is that there’s been a car accident on Mulholland
Drive where a woman (Laura Harring), who we originally see with a gun pointed to her
head, escapes and sneaks her way into a stranger’s house. While this is happening,
Betty (Naomi Watts), who is an aspiring actress, lands in LAX with wide eyes and big
hopes, later arriving at her Aunt Ruth’s house—which is where the unknown woman is
hiding.

Lynch lays out the puzzle pieces with an air of ambiguity, and yet, he takes another left
turn by inserting a scene that doesn’t seem to belong in the narrative; it serves a
purpose in the film, but it doesn’t seem to serve a purpose for the characters we’ve
been introduced to so far. Two men sit across from each other at Winkie’s Diner. One of
them, Dan, is recounting a nightmare that he had about this very diner to his friend, Herb, and explaining to him that the only reason why he wanted to come here was to
“get rid of this god-awful feeling”—to conquer his fears in a way. In the dream, Dan and
Herb are seated in the same way and it’s still daylight, but they’re both frightened. Dan
realizes what it is and describes that there is a man behind the diner…“he’s the one
who’s doing it.” back to reality, Herb then gets up and heads to the counter to pay for
the check. The audience, along with an unsettled Dan, realizes that this image parallels
the one that Dan just described from his dream. Exiting the diner, Dan, with Herb
following his lead, is already profusely sweating, almost as if he’s nervous that what’s
transpiring in reality is in fact mimicking his nightmare. He reluctantly begins to
approach the wall in the parking lot, and with an uneasy camera tilting back and forth,
Lynch depicts a very dreamlike yet suspense-filled environment. He brilliantly details
that feeling of magnetic force we encounter in our nightmares when we are drawn to
approach our fears. He nears the wall, and before we’re even prepared, a terrifying
figure reveals itself as a sudden burst of noise catches us off-guard and Dan instantly
faints—thus, creating perhaps the most effective and horrifying jump scare in all of
cinematic history. It’s so scary that I can wholeheartedly say it puts all of James Wan’s
horror filmography to shame as it is able to execute a startling scare in broad daylight.
Mainstream audiences have grown accustomed to the night being synonymous with
terror, and when we witness such a shocking jump scare take place in daylight in what
looks like the middle of the city, it’s bound to prove some jarring results as it thrusts
viewers out of their comfort zones. Lynch also provides this scene because at face
value, it seems bizarre to include characters that aren’t woven into the rest of the
narrative; but yet, its randomness emphasizes the film’s themes revolving around
dreams—the scene itself is vital in trying to understand just what Lynch is getting at.

Of course, Lynch, an admirer and promoter of the unknown’s allure, proves this scene’s
worth the more the film progresses. With this jump scare, it doesn’t matter what our
expectations were when starting the film—Lynch fastens a leash around us by controlling how we react to what’s thrown at us onscreen, and in turn, controlling our viewing experience without us even knowing. Maybe that explains the confusion we feel when watching Mulholland Drive. We are confused because only one person seems to understand what’s going on in the movie and that’s Lynch the director; our brains are collectively trying to unlock the storyline. No matter how capable we seem to be at predicting what happens next, Lynch consistently halts the audience’s momentum by reminding us that we are always two steps behind him.

When Betty finishes her successful audition in front of the project’s director and
producer, the casting agent takes her across the lot into a film set, thinking her acting
chops would be better suited for a big-budget endeavor. At this moment, however, Betty
locks eyes with director Adam Kesher (Justin Theroux). Lynch knows this genre trope
and he knows we know, roping us in using technical conventions. He purposely utilizes
the editing style of two back-to-back close-up shots of each of the character’s faces as
they lock eyes with one another; this is the cinematic translation of romance or sparks
flying, and yet Lynch pulls the carpet from under us by never having these characters
really interact in the film again.

Another example is when the unidentified woman—who calls herself Rita—pairs up with Betty and decides to solve the mystery of her identity. They go to Winkie’s where Rita sees the name “Diane” on the waitress’s name tag and remembers the name, Diane
Selwyn. They find Diane Selwyn in the phone book (remember Yellow Pages?) but
there is no answer after Betty tries calling her. The women go to Diane Selwyn’s
apartment, and it’s during this sequence that Lynch’s genius is made apparent. Having
already witnessed a pretty traumatic jump scare, we begin to anticipate jump scares for
the rest of the film. Combining that with the unanswered phone call, Lynch utilizes long
and winding takes as characters cut through corners of their location and a subjective
framing that makes the audience members hold their breath as the camera follows the
female pair; we’re expecting something to jump out and terrorize our senses, and yet,
there is no additional jump scare. His Hitchcockian sense of suspense and his
continuous knack for toying with the audience truly creates tension that lingers
throughout the film and never loosens its grip.

After they find Diane Selwyn’s corpse lying in bed, Betty and Rita attend Club Silencio
later that night. The club host announces to the audience that there is no live band.
Amid this confusion about what we’re supposed to see, out comes a female singer
(Rebekah del Rio) as she begins to sing a beautiful Spanish version of Roy Orbison’s
“Crying.” Again, Lynch controls our emotions and torments us even though we’ve
already been warned just moments earlier about the show being fake. He combines
close-ups of the singer’s passion when she belts out those notes with close-ups of Betty
and Rita weeping in their seats. Lynch purposely dictates how we’re supposed to feel,
but again, controls our responses by having the singer faint as we realize that she’s
been lip-syncing the entire time. We’ve been fooled by the movie again; it’s as if Lynch
shines the spotlight on his viewers as if to say, “Told you so.” Maybe this is Lynch
continuously reminding us that there is more than meets the eye.

Even when the movie ends with the last half hour depicting the real and more three-
dimensional Betty, we get the sense that Lynch will finally tie the narrative up by
somehow explaining the evolution of these characters in the final. However, we
continue to be at the mercy of Lynch who doesn’t let down his guard. Going into the
film, we are introduced to a story involving a spiraling mystery—instead of layers being
peeled off to reveal truths, layers are added on, and we leave the cinema under the
impression that the mystery continues to be a mystery. Lynch, in a way, consciously
refuses to spoon-feed his audience answers to various questions, but instead,
continuously tests us by seeing how vulnerable we are to the unexpected. Much like
dreams and his use of dreamlike motifs, Lynch wants us to question the reality of his
narrative by exploring territory that creates fear and as a result, he wishes for our minds
to reject the notions of Hollywood clichés and embrace the unexpected. This speaks as
a testament to Lynch’s abilities as an artist to subvert the expectations of the viewer and
instead, control our visceral reactions, leaving us in awe of someone whose lead we are
constantly following.

©Universal Pictures

SPOILERS!

There’s a certain aspect of nostalgia that permeates the entirety of Spike Lee’s filmography. Whether that is reflected through his montages of culturally vibrant neighborhoods or kids watching Saturday morning cartoons, Mr. Lee always knows how to use his paintbrush, confident of the reactions his painting will evoke. Maybe that’s because he sets all of his films in New York City—specifically, Brooklyn—and it’s easy for someone like me, a Brooklyn native, to feel so emotionally attached to these images of various street corners decorated with crowded houses and characters that come off as odd yet all too familiar. While these films may be easy to get lost in, Spike Lee makes it clear that his films articulate statements to audience members about the state of race in American culture; watch BlacKkKlansman and you’ll understand that progress from the 1970s to present day has been slow.

While Crooklyn plays out like a home video and retains most of Lee’s affinity for simplicity, it ultimately feels like an anomaly in his filmography; it’s not as heavy on the racial themes, and instead, its emphasis is primarily on the process of growing up and responding to unpredictable circumstances through a pair of innocent eyes. Crooklyn is also a rarity for Lee in that the protagonist is a young girl (Troy Carmichael, played by Zelda Harris)—most of his films occupy a predominantly male perspective.

In the beginning, we are introduced to the Carmichaels, a family with five children—four boys and one girl—living in a brownstone in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood that the director himself grew up in. The matriarch, is played to perfection by Alfre Woodard. Carolyn’s fiery temperament makes her intimidating to her children, and yet, her eyes convey warmth at the same time. Delroy Lindo plays Woody, the father, who was once a thriving pop musician but has now turned his attention towards more sophisticated jazz compositions; both husband and wife are constantly on edge as they struggle to make ends meet. After we progress through the first half of the film, the focus is primarily on the lives of the Carmichaels as a unit, but it eventually becomes clear that this is Troy’s narrative as we begin to follow her ventures through the neighborhood—we see her astonished glare as she observes a drag queen in a convenience store and we see her adjust to life in the suburbs when she visits her Aunt Song.

Much like Larry Clark’s Kids, Crooklyn is more effective when viewed today as it makes you hark back to memories of a past that included kids playing on street corners and sitting on stoops with board games until the sunset signalled their curfew. But unlike Kids, there’s an underlying innocence binding the Carmichael kids; part of that stems from the fact that the film serves as a semi-autobiography, drawing from Spike Lee’s memories when growing up in Bed-Stuy. This is most evident during scenes of quarrelling within the household; a fight ensues when Wendell doesn’t eat his plate of black-eyed peas, when Clinton refuses to turn off a Knicks game in his bedroom, and when Carolyn wakes her kids up to clean the damn kitchen.

Despite the film focusing solely on a family dynamic, it wouldn’t feel like a Spike Lee joint if there were no blatant observations of race in America. The Carmichaels’ neighbor, Tony Eyes, is an outsider—not only because of his white skin but also because of his eccentric behavior which leads him to trouble with the other neighbors. His resentment of the fact that he is surrounded by black neighbors manifests through the aggravation that he develops when the Carmichael kids leave their trash in his own cans. All of this boils over when he begins an argument with his neighbors, eventually calling the cops on them and having one of them arrested—a scenario America is a little too familiar with. When Troy stays with her aunt in an affluent neighborhood, her hair is ironed and her curls are flattened out; in a way, this strips off her identity and the viewer can see it in Troy’s expression as she walks with a deadpan stare and a lack of purpose. As a result, Lee quickly offers the dangers of imposing white beauty standards on young black girls.

Mr. Lee also alters technical aspects of his film in order to convey the feelings of alienation that swarms Troy’s mind when she stays over Aunt Song’s. When we watch this, we see what Troy sees when she comes across a world that might be familiar to its viewers, but foreign to her—a world dominated by clean-cut lawns, attached garages, and patios with seating space. This technique might confuse some at first viewing, but in a way, that’s the purpose.

When Troy returns, she returns with a newfound sense of self—a mature one that walks with poise in this unpredictable world. And the unpredictability of the world proves itself when she finds out just as soon as she returns that her mother is gravely ill. Troy’s stoic nature is really beautiful to watch in this moment of the film because as her brothers weep mournfully, she remains static; there’s a powerful scene right before Carolyn’s funeral where Troy is lying in bed and watching TV—her face is motionless—that perfectly conveys the feeling of dejection and heartbreak in times of unwarranted tragedies. What I love about this is how Lee reels his audience in with an easily accessible premise, but leaves us with the harsh realities of life. And in the process of doing this, we witness the transformation of the five Carmichael kids into a more mature group of siblings. Because that’s what childhoods serve—a time where we are dealt with unforeseen circumstances that shape our characteristics in anticipation of growing up.

Though Crooklyn doesn’t quite stand the test of time and isn’t as iconic as Lee’s more well-known works, it contains a deft personal touch that’s synonymous to the filmmaker’s pedigree. The film deserves to be ranked alongside other known coming-of-age stories like Stand by Me.

CONSENSUS: 3 out 4 RuPauls in a bodega

© Artificial Eye

Few movies are described as “beautiful to look at.” Normally, we concern ourselves with the unfolding of a narrative and its respective sequence of events so much that we pass off something so pronounced as the quality of images presented on the screen in front of us. That’s certainly not the case in Pawel Pawlikowski’s Ida, a film that takes place in ‘60s Poland but spends a majority of its running time discussing the country’s occupation by Nazis. But rather than telling a story that takes place amidst World War II, Pawlikowski is more interested in the legacy of war on a micro level—through the perspective of an 18-year-old woman.

Ida is presented under a 1.33 frame with crisp black-and-white images that evoke beauty yet intrigue. The quality of the images is so crisp you can almost freeze any shot, frame it, and put it on display at a museum. The only other film that’s made me feel this type of way was Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. Where the 1959 animated classic put intricate focus on landscapes by utilizing lush colors and texture that helped create Renaissance-like paintings on the screen, Ida places its focus on the people in front of the camera. The usage of a boxy frame creates this intimate look into what the characters are thinking and feeling, almost as if the filmmaker has his camera on portrait mode.

The film begins with a shot of Anna (Agata Trzebuchowska), a young novice nun who is set to take her vows, as she intensively paints a statue of Jesus—her devotion to God is evident by her eye-to-eye stance with the statue. We then accompany Anna through her day within the convent. The film’s silence is deafening for we don’t hear anything until the clanking of metal utensils as nuns slurp up their soups during dinner. Pawlikowski intentionally includes this to point out the monotony and cyclical routine of Anna’s everyday life. By placing these nuns with identical uniforms side by side slurping up the same dinner, the director paints a picture that elicits blandness—nothing is exciting as the nuns all look down to avoid eye contact, creating a world that’s seemingly isolated and out-of-touch with whatever’s beyond those walls.

Before Anna can take her vows, her prioress informs her that she has one known relative, her aunt Wanda Gruz (Agata Kulesza), and insists that she visit her. Aunt Wanda is a former judge with a high Communist Party rank. Her apparent promiscuous lifestyle combined with habits of chain-smoking and hard-drinking are enough evidence to characterize her as the foil to her sheltered niece. Wanda informs her niece that her real name is Ida Lebenstein (pronounced “ee-da”), and her parents, who were Jews, were murdered during the German liquidation of Poland in World War II. Wishing for her niece to get a sense of real life and its pleasures before her transition, Wanda sets out on a road trip with Ida. The viewer is able to see the discrepancy between the two generations thanks to the brilliant performances by the two leads. Trzebuchowska possesses these eyes that perfectly flesh out her character’s wide-eyed innocence, while Kulesza’s eyes are more tired and experienced—they have a dreadful knowledge of what the past holds for it dictates her current lifestyle.

Pawlikowski is too smart to make this movie about a generic bonding experience between two long-lost family members; instead, the movie examines the nuances within the characteristics of these contrasting women. On their voyage, Wanda picks up a hitchhiker named Lis (Dawid Ogrodnik), who happens to be a gifted jazz musician—Lis is going to a gig in the same town. With Ida’s position as the wide-eyed girl combined with the introduction of the handsome young musician into her world, there’s bound to be a spark lit up between the two and Wanda attempts to catalyze this. However, Ida ignores these acts of persuasion; after all, her first taste of the outside world is the self-destructive behavior reflected in her aunt.

Because Ida wishes to find the graves of her parents, people she never knew, Wanda takes her niece to the house they used to own and live in. Around the time of the German occupation, Wanda had left her son with Ida’s parents. However, over the course of the war, the house had been taken over by a Polish family, the Skibas, who hid the Lebenstein family from German authorities. One of the family members gives details to how he took three family members—Ida’s parents and Wanda’s son—into the woods to kill them. The only reason why Ida evaded death was the fact that she was able to pass for a Christian. And because she was an infant, she was conveniently sent to the convent. This sobering revelation is announced as they approach the burial ground and dig up the bones of their family. After taking the bones and burying them in a proper Jewish cemetery, aunt and niece go their separate ways, for they obviously feel the emotional impact of their voyage.

With their perspectives altered, Wanda and Ida resume their daily routines, but this time with a more detached viewpoint. Wanda, having connected puzzle pieces surrounding the deaths of her son and sister, falls into a depression, numbing herself with heavy drinking and sexing herself away. Ida, on the other hand, returns to the convent with a less stoic outlook as we hear her snickering amidst a slurp-infested dinner. While refreshing to see Ida break this streak of indifference we observe her in, it’s also telling that her reaction to such tragic revelations is that of a humorous perspective. Understanding her own position, Ida travels back to her aunt’s town. She encounters Lis again and decides to give in to her aunt’s suggestions of letting go—Ida dresses herself in stilettos, a gown, tries a cigarette and a drink, eventually ending the night in bed with Lis.

At this point, we’re happy for Ida for we anticipate an ending with a new beginning for the titular character. However, Ida’s indifference surfaces again. We observe her face as she’s in bed with Lis, and it looks unaffected—the pleasures and worldly sins that her aunt raved about have failed to evoke any awakening within her. And the final nail in the coffin proves to be the conversation that Ida has with Lis after they sleep together. When Ida asks Lis what their future holds, Lis suggests that she come with him to future shows and he proposes that they would get married and eventually have children, ultimately living “life as usual.” The next morning, we cut to Ida sitting naked in her bed. It’s almost as if her nakedness is synonymous with her identity—everything that’s guarded her up to this point has been stripped off of her, and she has been liberated. However, she decides to put on her convent habit again and leave.

The final shot deviates stylistically from the entirety of the movie. Ida is seen walking towards a hand-held camera, as it follows her to an unseen destination. This is uncharted territory because the film’s story has been told through long-lasting shots. Pawlikowski rarely moves the camera during scenes, creating light sources that highlights certain shadows of characters’ faces, and positioning figures in certain corners of a frame. Along with the dynamic hand-held camera that follows Ida in this scene, the first and only use of non-diegetic sound is incorporated in the form of Bach’s Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, a title that translates to: “I call upon you, Lord Jesus Christ.” Based on the title alone, it’s appropriate to predict that she’s headed back to the convent. But it’s hard to understand why. After all, we’ve seen the stark contrast between life within the convent and life outside it. Perhaps, she’s realized there’s nothing to strive towards in the outside world. Lis promises a marriage with children, which doesn’t seem genuine as his interest in Ida borders on obsession rather than infatuation. Ida also seems to realize that life outside the convent doesn’t seem to differ too much from the one she’s grown accustomed to for the past eighteen years. If she were to go along with Lis’ suggestions, she would still fall under a routine—get married, have children, lead a mundane domestic life. Ida’s prompt departure signifies the fact that she has made a decision, one that’s been influenced by the experiences she dabbled in—experiences that soon become sacrifices once she takes her vows. As she walks down the road, the piece that begins to play almost sounds like it’s calling her name. And like a child that’s suddenly been awakened, the camera paces back and forth in rhythm with Ida’s movements, indicating how her relationship with God has been fleshed out as a result of her recent experiences—a relationship that will be defined by devotion once she returns to the convent.

Despite having the Holocaust as a backdrop to the plot of this movie, Pawlikowski is more interested in the human spirit and how it responds to tragedies of the past. Do we numb the pain away, destroying ourselves in the process? Do we enable ourselves to lead a righteous journey? For Ida, she is given closure by understanding where exactly her origins lie. Born and raised in a convent with no sense of identity, Ida is given the opportunity to seek out her purpose. In doing so, she decides on her own merits what the future holds, a significant departure from the passive character we meet in the beginning of the film. By stepping foot in 1960s Warsaw, she is able to solidify her relationship with God by expanding her horizon in a way that surpasses what she’s been taught within the walls of the church. And Pawlikowksi achieves this full circle of an ending in a way that discards common cinematic tropes, in favor of an objective viewpoint.

CONSENSUS: 4 out of 4 audible slurps

©Warner Bros.

So often we associate slasher films with the hailed trinity: Halloween, Friday the 13th, and Nightmare on Elm Street. Despite all being released over 30 years ago, these films have stood the test of time and continue to be heralded as classics. But why is that? After all, they’re not the first pieces of film to delve into the serial killer subgenre. Psycho—released in 1960—is an iconic case of slasher suspense, thanks in part to its infamous shower scene. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre from 1974 introduced the world to a chainsaw-wielding madman with gory effects. But what actually binds those three aforementioned films of the trinity are the genre tropes that they established: the superhuman serial killer stalks and kills a group of unsuspecting teenagers with the lone survivor often being the female heroine. Another reason why these films are so often well-regarded in the slasher genre is the fact that the serial killers themselves have adapted a legacy that’s bigger than the movies themselves. The masks and the get-ups that the killers don play a huge role in their notoriety; Michael Myers with his blank William Shatner mask, Jason with that hockey goalie mask, and Freddy Krueger with his smiley burnt face and razor-sharp claws. Black Christmas—the 1974 Canadian slasher (not the god-awful 2006 remake)—follows the same premise as the big three. But what separates this from the “holy trinity” is the fact that we never see the killer in the flesh. We only witness the buildup to the murders and a shot of the victims post-kill.

And that’s why we rarely include Black Christmas into the conversation of the best slasher films of all time—there’s no killer mask or costume to serve as a mascot. The masks/costumes of Michael, Jason, and Freddy give their respective movies legendary status, for the constant display of these killers’ physical characteristics and their association with horror give them a sense of immortality as they continue to permeate into future generations.

However, Black Christmas deserves to be included in the list because the film incorporates an everlasting sense of dread; we never know who the killer is, and why he’s doing the killing. If Rosemary’s Baby teaches us anything, it’s that less is more. Leaving us in the dark, the filmmakers make us feel as on-edge as the characters in the film. And by not giving us a rhyme or reason as to why things occur in the movie, the movie terrorizes the shit out of us in its ambivalence.

Being distributed in a Canadian market didn’t help the film’s cause, because it achieved a very limited release in the United States, and thus, its legacy is often overshadowed by future films released to a wider market in America. Therefore, audience members and critics alike often credit Halloween—released a half-decade after Black Christmas—as the inventor of the slasher genre tropes: the protagonist being the final girl, subjective POV shots, and a holiday setting. But you look at Black Christmas, and not only does the movie make use of these now-infamous conventions, but it seems to perfect them in a way that will forever influence the horror genre. Despite being an underrated entry into the slasher canon, the film has slowly garnered a cult following and is now deemed a classic—as it should.

From the get-go, Black Christmas sets the tone with an introduction that seems all-too familiar when viewed today. As the camera pans onto a sorority house amidst a snowy Christmas Eve, we hear a pair of feet crunch the snow beneath as the camera gets closer to the house—we’re in the killer’s POV. Now I call this familiar because Halloween is so often celebrated for its opening sequence, which involves its killer’s POV setting the stage for the events to come, and the influence is so apparent if you watch the movies back-to-back.

Anyway, the unseen and disoriented figure makes his way up into the attic of the house, all while we view silhouettes of the college girls through the windows. Meanwhile, inside the house, one of the girls—Jess (Olivia Hussey)—picks up a ringing phone. Describing the caller as “the moaner” to the other girls, she listens intently as a mentally disturbed man yells out obscenities and makes pig noises. When Barb (Margot Kidder) tries to foul-mouth the caller right back, a clear and well-intended voice responds, “I’m going to kill you,” and hangs up. When innocent Clare (Lynne Griffith) goes upstairs to pack for the holidays, the killer hides in her closet and suffocates her, wrapping her head in a dry cleaning bag and placing her body seated on a rocking chair up in the attic (the camera always cuts to Clare’s lifeless face throughout the film as if to remind the audience of the menacing presence that continues to lurk within the house). When Clare doesn’t show up at her school to be picked up by her father the morning after, he tries looking for her before going to the police with Jess and Barb and the house mother, Mrs. Mac (Marion Waldman).

As this mystery unravels, we learn more about the characters and the arcs that they inhabit. Jess, for example, finds out that she’s pregnant and informs her boyfriend, Peter (Keir Dullea), that she’s going to have an abortion; this makes him angry at her abrupt decision as evident by the piano that he childishly destroys later on. This display of neurotic emotion is enough to convince us that Peter could be a suspect, but director Bob Clark never goes down the route of revealing the killer because leaving the film the way it started—under a cloud of mystery—is far more effective and jarring than a formulaic storyline with a gratifying resolution.

Normally, I discuss the sequence of events from beginning to end in these reviews. However, Black Christmas is a unique case because it’s a deep-seated experience in masterful suspense; there’s one scene that has haunted me to this day thanks to the film’s utilization of claustrophobic camerawork. Black Christmas masters a constant lingering feeling of dread because its characters are filled with several motives, whereas films like Halloween and Friday the 13^th provide only one motive for the characters: to overcome and beat the killer. In addition to the characters wanting to beat the killer, the characters in Black Christmas have motives of trying to identify who the killer is and the reason why he is doing this. We already know the answers to these questions in Halloween and Friday the 13^th, so in a way, we are surrounded by a sense of clarity as we watch those movies. Black Christmas, on the other hand, completely leaves us in the dark, and that’s why it’s so disturbing as well as—to be quite frank—the superior slasher.

CONSENSUS: 3.5 out of 4 distracting Christmas carols

                  ©Killer Films

SPOILERS!

If you’re a New Yorker or have spent enough time in New York to classify yourself as a “New Yawker”, then you’re perhaps all too familiar with the subway scene—cooped inside an air-conditioned cart on the Q train during the apex of rush hour. Sometimes, when I sit, I let my eyes wander and spot people donning professional attire or casual graphic tees. Despite the crowded spaces filled with diverse bodies, one thing seems to bind this temporary population together: the reliance on technology. I consciously take note of the rows of pedestrians that have their heads drooping down to the palms of their hands, in which they cradle a rectangular device that serves as a portal to TV shows and highly saturated photos of other people. How easy it is to have access to the world by detaching yourself from your world.

This dramatic observation makes it that more nostalgic to watch a film like Kids. This movie, directed by photographer Larry Clark, premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in 1995 to ample controversy for its sexually explicit content and extensive drug use involving teens. It’s vulgar, and at times, hard to watch. But overall, it’s a movie about teens before the privilege of cell phones and social media took over their psyches. There’s no incorporation of technology that the teens bury their faces in; they look at each other when they are talking and thus they are more involved in the conversations they’re having.

In the beginning, we are introduced to Telly, the main character played by Leo Fitzpatrick, as he boasts about his love for deflowering girls to his friend, Casey (Justin Pierce). This scene, of course, follows the introductory scene in which we actually see Telly having sex with a 12-year-old girl whom he coaxes into bed by using her naïveté to his advantage. As he recounts this heartless moment to Casper, the camera is following them from across the street with real New York City streets as the backdrop. And so, we see whatever the camera sees, giving the film a vibe that makes it reminiscent of a documentary.

Speaking of its authenticity, Larry Clark’s skills as a photographer shines through with his use of vivid colors that capture a bleakness that’s probably synonymous with the mental states of the teenagers. This, along with a cast that doesn’t scream out Hollywood, heightens the realism of the film.

Kids is also noted for launching the careers of Chloe Sevigny and Rosario Dawson, who play Jennie and Ruby respectively. We’re not introduced to them until we’re well acquainted with the central guys of the film. When the boys are talking about sex, they brag about their experiences and put themselves on a pedestal. This conversation intercuts with another conversation that the girls are having in someone else’s house. While the boys amp themselves up on one side, the girls diminish them by hilariously scolding some of their “abilities” and instead praising some of the indulgences that satisfy them instead. This miscommunication between the genders perfectly cements the film’s status as a hard-core R-rated version of a teen flick. Plus, it introduces the world to Rosario Dawson in a scene that she steals as she rants about how much she loves foreplay and “hardcore pound fucking”; her deadpan eyes and brash tone give her a maturity that is much more suggestive than her character’s age—she knows what she’s talking about and she makes sure that the camera captures it all.

                                          Rosario Dawson as Ruby

One would think that a movie that chronicles a day in the life of groups of teenagers would succumb to montages of incessant partying and using drugs and alcohol. However, the plot casually sneaks up on its audience just as soon as sex talk is over. We hear Ruby reference how she’s getting tested for STDs and she has asked Jennie to tag along just for moral support, even though Jennie has had sex only once in her life with—who else? —Telly. Ruby’s test is negative, but Jennie, much to her and the audience’s surprise, is tested positive for HIV. At this point, the film shies away from the emphasis on empty pleasures that the kids experience as the rest of the film has its eyes on Jennie as she tries to track down Telly to not only inform him of what he’s done, but to prevent him from passing on his poison.

The dread piles on in the film as Jennie is always a pace behind Telly. Through the film’s 24-hour time frame, we cut between Telly hunting for his next conquest as he and his friends attend a party littered with booze and drugs, and Jennie navigating her way throughout Manhattan on her own. And it’s weird to observe this transpire because this same scenario would’ve been much more condensed had it took place in the present. Today, we see technology engulf the minds of not just everyday people, but especially teens. That’s why the film feels so authentic and documentary-like, for it captures teens at a specific time in a specific place actively interacting with each other, instead of just mumbling while their heads magnetize to the screens on their phones. Of course, had the characters carried cell phones, Telly would have avoided passing on his disease to his next “victim” at the film’s conclusion. This ultimately gives the movie that unmistakably dated quality alongside a color tone that’s highly saturated and reminds me of a grunge music video on MTV.

With the lack of any prominent adults in the movie and each shot revolving around the teens, Larry Clark heightens the aimlessness of these kids by having them fill their voids with temporary moments of escape in the form of drugs and sexual release. This film is not meant to glorify or romanticize the rebellious side of growing up, but it’s meant to serve as a warning to parents and even teenagers that there are life-or-death repercussions to having no guidance as a youth.

The film’s resolution doesn’t even leave the characters with any mercy. Its final scene is a graphic and hard-to-watch scene in which Casper rapes a sleeping Jennie. And as soon as he’s done, he wanders around the party scene looking for any remnants of last night as he cleans out a bottle of beer. This ending leaves us feeling empty, almost as if whatever awaits these teenagers in the movie is nothing but a bleak future.

CONSENSUS: 3 out of 4 parental warnings

©Magnolia Pictures

SPOILERS!

I remember being 4 or 5 years old when my dad somehow told me that people grow old and die. Because I was so young, I was completely overwhelmed with this revelation; You mean to tell me that someday, I will no longer be here? is a question that kept swirling around my head. It was a brisk wintry afternoon with gray skies and while my dad was doing yard work on the front lawn, I walked over to the edge of the sidewalk and stared onto the gravel in front of me. I started crying as this new concept of death left me bewildered and longing for immortality. It’s weird how something so inevitable could affect your mindset and how you go about your days. Well, this theme is explored fervently in Lars von Trier’s meditative and existential art film, Melancholia. In the movie, we see a rogue planet appropriately called Melancholia approaching Earth, indicating the apocalypse; as the end of the world nears, we observe how two sisters “prepare” emotionally for their demise.

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Hunters in the Snow (Winter), 1565, oil on wood, 162 x 117 cm.

Before anyone utters a line of dialogue, Melancholia begins with the ending. In the course of its first 8 minutes, von Trier assembles a montage of images that seem ambiguous under first viewing. There’s a close-up of Justine (Kirsten Dunst) as she slowly opens her eyes while dead birds fall out of the sky behind her, foreshadowing the disaster that’s on its way. There’s a shot of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s Hunters in the Snow, a Renaissance painting that evokes a sense of hopelessness—a group of hunters is seen trudging through the snow with their heads hanging, towards an ice skating rink littered with upbeat peasants. There’s a serene image of Justine floating down a narrow stream, donning her wedding dress and veil; this shot eludes to John Everett Millais’s Ophelia which depicts the character from Hamlet as the burdens of her grief lead to her deliberate drowning. This picture also heightens the depressive mood that Ophelia was in as the water envelopes Justine’s dress, ultimately weighing her down into the abyss. As we move from shot to shot, Richard Wagner’s prelude to Tristan and Isolde accompanies these crisp and detailed images. This romantic composition adds to the beauty of the montage, and yet, the piece’s strings give the sequence a tragic atmosphere, which appropriately goes hand in hand with the final shot being the collision between the two planets. At this point, we understand that the montage’s purpose was to serve a condensed version of the narrative.

I believe that Lars von Trier is not particularly concerned with the ending. With mainstream apocalyptic films, the audience’s main concern is whether or not the protagonists will survive or if the apocalypse will/won’t occur. Instead, von Trier uses the apocalypse as the set up. Because we know the ending to the film, we want to know how we get there and how the preceding images symbolically reflect the narrative.

The first half of the film, entitled “Justine”, details the younger sister’s gradual descent into depression in the midst of her wedding reception. A staple in Lars von Trier’s films, the editing style of cutting to a scene that marks the end of something is very prevalent in this half. A clear example is the fact that von Trier starts off his narrative not with the wedding ceremony, but at the wedding reception in the peak of night. As a result, the audience feels a bit detached from what’s going on, just like the way Justine feels as the night goes on. Characters sprinkle hints here and there about Justine’s condition. Her sister, Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), confronts her and pleads with her to “not make any scenes tonight” and Claire’s husband (Kiefer Sutherland) commands Justine to “be happy.” As the reception progresses, Justine delves deeper and deeper into her manically depressive episodes. When she tries to revive herself or when others urge her to snap out of it, Justine returns to the continuing party, but as her episodes become more and more frequent, her condition follows her out into the party. In the beginning she was able to repress her condition, but like Ophelia, her depression begins to swallow her and drag her down until we barely recognize the bubbly new bride that comically tried to get the limousine through the narrow country road in the beginning of the film. The disease takes such a firm grasp on Justine that her new husband, Michael (Alexander Skarsgard), calls off their wedding, and she is fired from her job at the first half’s conclusion.

If the first half of the film was a preview of Justine’s state of mind, the second half serves as the main attraction. Although entitled “Claire”, this second half is more concerned with the approach of planet Melancholia, and how this event plays a role within the minds of both sisters; how will Justine’s depression stack up against the most depressing situation and what role will this impending doom play in Claire’s existential anxiety? Because we are so focused on Justine and the wedding reception during the first half, we gloss over a fairly interesting detail about Claire—she is always the one to act according to plan. We see her distraught over Justine and Michael’s late arrival to the wedding reception, unamused as she tries to console Justine and prevent her from causing a scene, and very casual when she tosses her sister’s bouquet for her. Based on these actions, Claire always makes sure everything runs smoothly. So when her sister becomes detached from her world, it is up to Claire to revive her at the start of the second half. From drawing a bath for her to cooking her favorite dish, Claire does everything in her power to get things back to normal. But when something inevitable and out of her control starts to happen like the world ending, we see Claire crack for the first time; she becomes inconsolable because death by apocalypse was never in her blueprint.

In the beginning of the film’s second half, we see how Justine’s mental illness takes a toll on her. She doesn’t get out of bed because her limbs, once mobile and light, are too heavy to help herself into the bath tub. Her sense of taste has vanished—meat loaf, her favorite dish, “tastes like ashes.” Stylistically, von Trier is able to convey this sense of detachment by using slow motion images during the 8-minute introduction. An image shows Justine in her wedding dress trying to escape a forest with weeds tied around her ankles. These pesky tendrils represent the effects of Justine’s depression as her sense of self is taken away from her–time basically stands still. To me, this movie is one of the most genuine portrayals of depression ever. Mental illnesses are generally stigmatized and it’s due in part to our very little comprehension of them; even science has yet to establish any significant findings. This rift between science and reality is perfectly illustrated through the notion of Claire’s husband constantly reassuring her that Melancholia’s trajectory will avoid Earth’s orbit, but all of his scientific data proves to be inadequate as the rogue planet circles back and heads for Earth. This is meant to perhaps show that not even science can provide us with concrete answers, just like how it can’t provide us with answers when it comes to something that’s as prevalent in human existence as depression.

By the end of the film, we witness the emergence of Justine from the depths of her illness. As Lars von Trier points out in an interview, this move is a nod to how depressed people tend to remain calm during catastrophic events. The end of the world doesn’t seem to have an impact on Justine’s psyche. Emotionally, she is so far down into the barrel of despair, that a major event like the apocalypse serves as a bolt of enlightenment for Justine as she confronts Claire about how the end of the world isn’t something to sweat or cry about because “life on Earth is evil.” On the other hand, Claire responds with disbelief to Justine’s nihilistic viewpoints and as a result, she becomes a lot more hysterical and starts to panic in the face of death. The roles have swapped and Justine transforms into the more rational and “saner” sister at the film’s conclusion.

Claire’s uncontrollable hysteria reminds me of that anecdote that I referenced in the beginning. You live your life planning out the days in your future, all of the things you wish to accomplish, and then abruptly, you’re informed that your days are limited—that death ultimately awaits you. Claire does not wish to die, for she has all the amenities one could wish for: a healthy marriage and an affluent lifestyle. But Justine’s nihilism pushes her away from a great job or domesticity because she realizes human life is so small and insignificant when it comes to the entire scope of the universe—it’s absurd to become frantic or to dwell on the fact that the world is ending because, as she points out, “life is only on Earth, and not for long.” That’s why her depression transforms seamlessly into a state of serenity.

  ©Magnolia Pictures                                                                               ©Mosfilm

I’d be remised if I didn’t briefly talk about the inspiration behind some of the artistic references in the film. With von Trier’s incorporation of Bruegel’s painting and Wagner’s prelude, it’s pretty obvious that Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris plays a big influence on Melancholia. Besides sharing the themes of human existence, both films make significant use of Bruegel’s painting, Hunters in the Snow; the painting’s appearance in Solaris comes at a climactic moment when Hari, the carbon copy of Kris’s dead wife, comes to a realization that memories of the past are what makes humans truly human. Von Trier’s use of Wagner’s prelude is clearly influenced by Tarkovsky’s incorporation of Johann Sebastian Bach’s chorale prelude in F minor, Ich ruf’ zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639. This method of using music as a refrain is a way for the filmmakers to inform the audience of not only how they should feel but that they’re about to enter a contemplative world that’s specifically its own. There’s also the poster of Melancholia that’s taken from the Ophelia-inspired image. But if you look at the edges, Justine’s elegant white wedding dress is surrounded by a serene stream of water with vibrant greens. The first shot of Solaris is the infamous dream-like image of bright green weeds dancing beneath the surface of a body of water—the weeds representing memories from the past that continually define who Kris is in the present. By using the greens in Melancholia, von Trier points out the memories that Justine detaches herself from when she slips into her depressive coma.

For sure, Melancholia is a controversial film. After all, Lars von Trier has never been afraid to push the boundaries of cinematic filmmaking. At times, the film’s pace may seem a bit too glacial, but that’s in part due to von Trier’s signature documentary-style filmmaking; it’s a rule that he has conformed to ever since creating the Dogme movement and it helps create a sense of realism for the viewers. Kirsten Dunst is absolutely mesmerizing and devastatingly haunting in this movie about a disease that distorts the person’s relationship with the surrounding world. Melancholia is such an unconventional film because there’s never been a film so earnest about depression before. The disease is still not fully understood even today, and the film clearly points to that, by correlating it with the apocalypse in a poetic and almost fairy-tale manner. Justine, for instance, knows how many beans are in the bottle at the reception because “she knows things,” which means she possesses some truth when she states that life on Earth is unnecessary. Her nihilistic personality is reflected in the final shot when Melancholia collides into Earth. Before Justine is swallowed up by the collision, we see her silhouette sitting upright and almost unaffected by the inevitable doom—she looks like a deity that commands one’s attention. Through artistic expression like Lars von Trier’s Melancholia, depression is presented under a spotlight as its ambiguity opens up a conversation that follows viewers long after the credits roll.

CONSENSUS: 4 out of 4 beans in the bottle

©Paramount Pictures

SPOILERS!

You may be wondering why I’m reviewing two Polanski films in a row, or you may not care at all and instead be wondering why I’m wondering about a nerdy statistic. Anyway, the reason behind this scandalous decision is that I came across this film in the midst of my spring semester when me and other students were assigned to watch the movie for film class. The film is called Chinatown and it marks the last Polanski feature film that was manufactured in America before the Polish director fled to Europe following charges of sex with an underage girl.

Like other Polanski films, Chinatown contains a premise that seems simple at first glance, but contains elements beneath the surface that cause viewers and filmmakers alike to revere this neo-noir classic to this day. From the old-school opening credits to the renowned last line, Chinatown is a crime drama that pays homage to the noir mysteries of old Hollywood, but leaves an imprint on the viewer’s mind that’s impressively the film’s very own.

Today, Chinatown is known for its star power and a screenplay that will forever be studied in film schools. Jack Nicholson—before he was McMurphy, Jack Torrance, the Joker, or any other stereotypical caricature of himself— was J.J. Gittes, a private investigator with a sliver of sadness in his eyes. Everything he does is filled with purpose and the efforts that he goes through to satisfy other people’s needs makes the ending that more tragic. Normally, we expect a sidekick in these types of sleuth films but the isolation of Gittes is perfectly executed through the indifferent gaze that Nicholson provides. The reason why Nicholson is such a beloved American actor is not because of the erratic characters we’re so used to him playing, but because of the subtler performances that round out his filmography.

The plot follows the genre tropes of the classic noir mysteries during the era of the Bogarts and the Hayworths: the private investigator encounters an intriguing woman, has a fling with her, but then she turns out to be someone she isn’t, and the hero has to deal with the conflict of dangerous love vs. moral justice. However, in good ol’ Polanski fashion, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Initially asked by an elderly woman named Evelyn Mulwray to spy on her husband for an infidelity case, Gittes is then visited by the real Mrs. Mulwray, played by Faye Dunaway (today’s youth might recognize her by Best Picture is…La La Land). Her husband is found murdered and Gittes deduces that Mr. Mulwray, who was the chief engineer for the LA Department of Water and Power, discovered a plot where the water department was deliberately drying up the land so that the water could be bought at a reduced price.

Gittes finds out that Mulwray’s former business partner was Evelyn’s father, Noah Cross (coincidentally played by iconic noir filmmaker John Huston). Cross hints at Gittes to not get involved with the situation unfolding as a result of Mulwray’s washed-up body. There’s obviously something fishy taking place once Evelyn starts to plead with Gittes to stay away from her father—her body tenses up and her voice stutters at the mention of her father’s name. it isn’t until after Gittes and Evelyn sleep together that we find out who exactly Noah Cross is, which gives the audience the green light to label him as the film’s antagonist.

And just as soon as we attain a grasp on who’s who and what’s what, Chinatown ends swiftly with a final scene that eerily comes full circle. Robert Towne’s original screenplay called for an upbeat ending where the protagonists prevailed while the antagonist was killed off. With Polanski’s pregnant wife being murdered by the Manson family 5 years prior to the release of this film, this ending just didn’t seem plausible. Therefore, Polanski revised the ending to a bleaker and grim finale—one that doesn’t really give the viewers any closure, a characteristic that the director has explored to perfection previously in films like Repulsion and Rosemary’s Baby.

What I love about this film so much are all of the Easter eggs that viewers pick up on in subsequent viewings. It’s something that I shed light on in the previous review on Rosemary’s Baby. There’s something admirable about a movie that has its filmmakers lay out puzzle pieces for us so patiently and a bit casually, and then tie them together with an abrupt conclusion. That’s why, 44 years later, Chinatown is respected as one of the most significant cinematic achievements. A big example is the character of Evelyn Mulwray. Initially cold and intimidating, Evelyn soon transforms into someone we root for once we realize her situation. But as soon as we seem to wrap our head around Evelyn, she is killed in a violent manner in the film’s memorable final minutes. Watching the film again, however, we pick up on things that foreshadow things to come. Just before their love scene, Gittes points out a fault in Evelyn’s left iris—a sort of birth mark; coincidentally, this is exactly where Evelyn is shot, killing her. After the pair make love, Gittes confronts Evelyn in her car about his suspicions about her. An exasperated Evelyn leans on her steering wheel for support, and is greeted with a honk that pulls her back. Evelyn’s death is later identified by the sound of a horn blaring from her car; we then find her lifeless body leaning on the steering wheel. Another minute detail is placing a melted ice cream cone next to a dead body, indicating the time of reference for the crime.

Despite its status as a classic film with a screenplay that’s used as a model for aspiring screenwriters, there’s still a cloud of mystery that hangs over Chinatown. To me, this cloud is attributed to the interpretation of its title because it’s only in the last five minutes that the film takes place in the aforementioned location. So, why exactly Chinatown? Well, for starters, Chinatown is exactly where the most palpable scene of the movie takes place—Evelyn is gunned down in a disturbing image, the bad guy prevails, and the film’s most epic line of dialogue is delivered with the gleaming lights of the location in the background. Despite its very brief appearance in the movie, Chinatown is an omnipresent force within the main character’s psyche. In the beginning of the movie, Jack Gittes is a very nonchalant hero, patronizing to whoever walks into his office and using his dry humor to get on a person’s good side. He reaches premature conclusions about his clients because his past haunts him; the last time he got too emotionally invested in a case, his client was killed…at the same location. Therefore, the location of Chinatown almost serves as a lingering metaphor for failure on Gittes’ part to protect the ones that deserved justice. “Forget it, Jake; it’s Chinatown” is almost like a cruel reminder to Gittes that he, yet again, inadverdently allowed the bad guys to win. Despite the encouraging tone that the line is delivered in, one gets the sense that this will further catalyze Gittes’ repression of his concept of Chinatown; he definitely will not “forget it” and instead become even more indifferent than he previously was.

Chinatown, like its residents, also represents the detachment people have from those who possess full power. Noah Cross is a powerful figure and is able to manipulate the people around him to prevail. In a case of dramatic irony, we know what type of conniving man Cross is, but the authorities turn a blind eye to his moral crimes—this is evident in Evelyn’s line as she is trying to escape Cross’s grasp: “He owns the police!” Despite Gittes’ good intentions, his powerlessness contributes to the ill-fated ending. Much like the crowd of Asian locals that surround the crime scene, Gittes serves as a bystander to this horrific crime and has no other choice but to emotionally detach himself from the situation at hand. And this is the same attitude that the movie serves to the racial Other. The movie comes under fire in today’s time because of its racist portrayals of foreigners. The film seemingly makes fun of Asian immigrants and brings up racist stereotypes. However, beneath this first glance, there’s actually a subtle message that Polanski perhaps wishes his viewers to linger on. The movie’s racism isn’t so much of a purposeful reflection of the times of filmmaking, but instead, could be looked at as a deliberate way that we as a society observe foreigners. Behind the stereotypes that blind us, there are human beings and Polanski does this by showcasing shifts in narrative when we come across a Hispanic boy or a Japanese gardener. The Mexican boy on the horse approaches Gittes to inform him of the reason behind the drought in the LA water ways. And the most significant example is the Japanese gardener pointing out that the salt water is “bad for gl/rass”, identifying the bifocals in the koi pond and thus pinning Cross as the murderer of Mr. Mulwray (Cross is the only character that wears bifocals). Despite these people being such integral parts to the narrative, they are always sidelined and excluded from American society; this is reflected in the last shot when Gittes walks away and into the crowd of staring, bewildered Asian residents.

And with that ending shot, we encounter a recurring theme in a lot of Polanski films: there’s never a happy ending or clear resolution because life is rarely synonymous with clarity. Despite the audience’s urge for the heroes to prevail, Polanski offers a sobering tale about evil coming out as the victor—rainbows and butterflies are not reality (Polanski would be the first to tell us that). Chinatown not only succeeds in conveying this message, but also offers a mirror to the white majority, and our prejudiced tendencies to sideline those who contrast from us solely on a physical level. Because at the end of the day, we need each other for survival—we need each other to move narratives.

CONSENSUS: 3.5 out of 4 nosy, fellow kitty cats