An essay in the now-abandoned A Personal Consideration of Silence essay series.

In my limited experience, there are two types of “favorite” films. This does not apply just to films that the viewer relates to on a personal level (although that plays a significant part) or to the towering masterpieces of cinema, but to a very particularly moving form of connection that the experience of watching and subsequent reflection activates in a viewer. These two types, described in terms of what each individual lover has to say, are as follows:

1. It is immensely difficult to articulate the nature of the film’s greatness or general quality for whatever reason. Usually, this seems to stem from more intimate movies, ones that are difficult to evaluate from an impersonal lens. They are usually films that lie closer to real life, in the small interactions and little snippets of dialogue.

2. The viewer has an inordinate amount of things to say about the film from a variety of self-imposed perspectives and aspects. This more often than not occurs concerning mammoth films that are clearly great, grandiose productions (not to be conflated with Farber’s conception of white elephant art, as these are usually incisive works), whether they be in the canon or not.

Obviously, this binary is, as all binaries are, reductive, and there are many of my favorite films that fall somewhere in between these two extremes. Nevertheless, all of them are aligned somewhat with these dual categorizations. More importantly, never have I felt the urge of the second type as strongly as I have with Silence, Martin Scorsese’s depiction of incredible, purposeful, and troubling faith in the most hostile of locales. It is a film that gives no quarter, leaves no stone unturned in its repeated questioning of its central character and by proxy the viewer, and what results is a kind of affirmation, a complicated ambiguity that feels irresistible.

It is perhaps only fair to lay out my rather considerable shortcomings in undergoing this venture of writing multiple long essays on this great film. I have seen a grand total of—at this time of writing—six Scorsese films, and among the unseen are a good deal of films both relevant (The Last Temptation of Christ, Kundun, The Wolf of Wall Street) and not but still essential (Mean Streets, The Age of Innocence). I also have not seen Masahiro Shinoda’s version of Silence, nor Shūsaku Endō’s original novel, though I do know the context in which the latter was made. And of course, I am a neophyte of cinema at best, whose cursory knowledge vastly outstrips any benchmark of actual viewing.

So why do I want to tackle such an extraordinary film in such a brazen manner? The film’s majesty, of course, speaks for itself and even for someone as unlearned as me I want to discuss it. The decidedly mixed response of the consensus as a whole (in that the detractors have stated their opinions as vociferously as the supporters) is another reason. But certainly the strongest is my identity as an Asian Christian and the ways in which it deals with that ideal. Silence challenged and moved me in ways even religion cannot, and I relish any attempt to grapple with it further.

This project of sorts will take some time, and I anticipate that posts will come out irregularly. There is no set outline at this time, but each essay will attempt to tackle some different facet of Silence, some focusing on more technical sides and others on more theological issues.

For now, this is what I have to say about Silence. There will be many, many more words forthcoming, and I pray that they will not come in the form of unadulterated fawning, but as a testament to the glory of this truly monumental work.

So many echoes, both conscious and (I presume, though putting anything past these three geniuses is risky at best) unconscious. Each film has a scene of “acting” in a certain way, and the rhythms and often content of the walks are admirably similar, but each feels so differentiated by the ravages of time and love. A car ride that forms the climax of Sunset becomes the first act of Midnight, the glory of Sunrise becomes more and more attenuated until it acts as a divider, and through it all Linklater grows ever more confident, as vital as ever; the sense of worldly weariness comes from the roles, not the collaborators.

A large part of what made Out 1 such a compelling, mesmerizing experience was the fact that I saw it in a theater and with other people. Watching such a film of notorious duration in a place where I couldn’t just get up or pull up another screen helps, certainly for every film but especially one of this kind. Leaving aside the fact that the two and a half hours of Evolution of a Filipino Family didn’t impress me nearly as much as the first episode of Out 1, I feel that the meditative pace of Evolution would have played significantly better in a theater where the rewind button was not an option.

The rewind button, however, helped little when it came to the surprisingly convoluted plot. Neither the Boyhood-esque portrait from Robert Koehler’s review at TIFF nor the non-linear style I had read from someone online, it is instead two parallel storylines, roughly speaking, a fact gleaned later on after I had taken numerous breaks and rewinds in an attempt to figure out the plot. Out 1 offers numerous pleasures aside from its relatively inconsequential plot, but the contours that I found most informed Evolution seemed fragmented. If I had gotten further, and been more in tune with Lav Diaz’s elongated rhythm, then things could have been different, but as is…

It must also be mentioned that Diaz’s style seemed rather different from expected. Though in the first half hour there are some long takes of landscape and people moving through it similar to that of Weerasethakul (in my limited experience) much of the film proceeds in a rather uninhibited vein: the shooting style is the same but the comment is filled with violence and intimations of the surrounding world, along with those rather odd radio stories; whether they are meant to echo the narrative or not seemed inconclusive.

The first short of the selection, “Regal” achieves the feat of conforming exactly to the viewer’s idea of what it is and sneakily suggesting something more. It is in effect a showing of an immensely degraded print of a Regal Theaters preshow advertisement, and there is a certain thrill in watching these images broken down to their elemental colors, but Karissa Hahn complicates this by foregrounding how it is being shown—on a laptop screen. There is much buffering and playing/pausing, coupled with the amusing sounds of the space bar and a computer alert, though it is complicated further by having the play/pause icon that pops up look as degraded as the ad. The short is capped off by showing a download button, and though Hahn’s point doesn’t necessarily come across cleanly, her images are a delight nonetheless.

“Now: End of Season” also pulls off a similar mixture, though to slightly less successful results. Using footage of Syrian refugees in Turkey and overlaying it with an archival telephone call of former Syrian President Hafiz al-Assad trying to reach Ronald Reagan as the latter is horseback riding, Ayman Nahle mixes the present and past in a somewhat oblique way. This juxtaposition is further displayed by the focus on things of the present that act as extensions of the various figures: cell phones, suitcases, clothing, and other such items. If Nahle is attempting to imply some sort of political message related to modern day Syria (e.g. on American intervention), it is mostly lost under the just-too-long running time and the inexplicably ominous thrum of the electronic score, but the short remains engaging throughout its run.

On the other hand, “Cilaos” goes for extreme artifice, combining a ’70s blaxploitation aesthetic, a capella musical numbers, and a rigorous style to tell the story of a woman searching for her father. The moody celluloid look is matched by the soulful singing of the three actors, especially Christine Salem, and Restrepo frames them often against empty backgrounds as they look directly at the camera. Throughout, a spirit of experimentation is as present as the narrative, using the same actor to play two different roles in the same shot and framing. In the final third, Restrepo abandons the narrative in favor of pure celebration, as the woman seems to assume her father’s role and the short breaks down. It is a wonderful, mystifying short all around.

Almost certainly the most exciting of the entire program (from both parts) is “Foyer”, by Ismaïl Bahri. The setup is simple enough—a blank piece of white paper is placed in front of a camera filming a street in Tunis—and even if the sole content of the film was to capture the way the light and wind subtly change the color and texture of the shot, it would remain thoroughly absorbing for at least a good portion of the runtime. But Bahrain uses the sound to an astonishing extent, using what appears to be unscripted conversations with random passersby as they ask the purpose of his filming the paper and, especially in the earlier parts, about how it relates to the traditional conception of cinema. Consequently, the short remains more than lively throughout, with only a few lulls in between certain conversations. The second half takes an unexpected but even more delightful turn, as police officers ask Bahri to take his camera to the station to be examined. The tension is quickly dissipated after the officers quickly realize the contents of the recording (the sound continues even as the filming is ostensibly stopped, which leads to some question over whether everything is as is) and gradually the short turns into a study of the mindset of Tunisia in the current decade. At once a study of the image and a unexpectedly expansive piece of ethnography, “Foyer” is even more rewarding than initially meets the eye.

In stark contrast, “Indefinite Pitch” seems to almost provoke the viewer with its confrontational approach. Beginning as a pitch for a film set in Berlin (originally unspecified), the short quickly devolves into an extended reflection on the Northeast, the town of Berlin, New Hampshire, and even the culture of today, all using the pitch that has been reconfigured from a 1927 silent movie filmed in Berlin. The monologue itself is surprisingly dense, and perhaps takes on too many topics in such a short timespan, but the deftness with which Wilkins returns to certain points seems almost too clever. Unfortunately, as a result of a possibly jaundiced worldview on the part of the narrator (whether or not Wilkins fully shares the views he is espousing is unclear), there is a strong tinge of nastiness that is only amplified by the continual escalation then deescalation of the pitch modulation that, at the halfway mark, turns into an alarm-like whine which does dissipate after less than a minute. The still images are visually pleasing enough, occasionally echoing the narration, but their purpose only becomes clear towards the end, as Wilkins continues his game of metaphorical cat-and-mouse with the viewer.

The religious aspects of The Night of the Hunter are apparent from the very premise—it is, after all, a film about a deranged, amoral so-called preacher. But what struck me most on this rewatch, especially with a slightly incredulous audience, was the purity of the movie, especially in its depiction of religion, faith, and innocence. Laughton and Agee made no attempts to conceal the hypocrisy of the community, but that in and of itself is a faithful gesture, and at least for me, it worked wonders.

From the very beginning, The Night of the Hunter blatantly positions itself as a fairy tale; Lillian Gish appears in space a la the beginning of Dune, and this is matched by the ending, where she talks directly to the camera. But like her nightly teachings, and quite unlike Mitchum’s fiery sermon, the film never feels preachy, treating its events with the utmost sincerity.

A Brian De Palma Ranking

1. Passion
2. Carlito’s Way
3. Femme Fatale
4. Body Double
5. Blow Out
6. Casualties of War
7. Carrie
8. Phantom of the Paradise
9. Dressed to Kill
10. Scarface
11. Snake Eyes
12. Raising Cain
13. Sisters
14. Mission: Impossible
15. The Black Dahlia
16. Greetings
17. The Fury
18. Obsession
19. Home Movies
20. The Untouchables
21. Mission to Mars
22. Dionysus in ’69
23. Hi, Mom!
24. Murder à la Mod
25. The Bonfire of the Vanities
26. Redacted
27. Get to Know Your Rabbit
28. The Wedding Party
29. Wise Guys

Top Ten De Palma Performances

1. Al Pacino, Carlito’s Way
2. Michael J. Fox, Casualties of War
3. Sissy Spacek, Carrie
4. Noomi Rapace, Passion
5. Nicolas Cage, Snake Eyes
6. John Travolta, Blow Out
7. William Finley, Phantom of the Paradise
8. Gerrit Graham, Home Movies
9. Antonio Banderas, Femme Fatale
10. Tom Hanks, The Bonfire of the Vanities

A Few Scattered Thoughts on the “Master of the Macabre”

To the average cinephile, De Palma is most known for his cynicism and, in his most famous film Blow Out, a perversely nihilistic sensibility. Yet this is probably not an accurate viewpoint: of his 29 films (to date), only 4 have unambiguously tragic and saddening endings, though it is perhaps not a surprise that most of them are among his greatest works (an argument could also be made for Scarface):

• Carlito’s Way
• Blow Out
• Phantom of the Paradise
• Redacted

By comparison, no less than 15 De Palma films have more or less happy endings:

• Femme Fatale
• Body Double
• Casualties of War (despite tinged with sadness)
• Snake Eyes
• Mission: Impossible
• The Black Dahlia (shockingly, given the absolute sordidness that had immediately preceded it)
• The Fury (again, debateable)
• Obsession
• Home Movies
• The Untouchables
• Mission to Mars
• Dionysus in ’69 (cheating, but it counts)
• The Bonfire of the Vanities
• Get to Know Your Rabbit
• Wise Guys

and the rest of the films fall into either ambiguity or a gleeful twist. It is perhaps most accurate to classify De Palma as a filmmaker who is perfectly willing to give his characters a happy ending, even if it comes abruptly, so long as he puts them through absolute hell first.

De Palma is also known for his meditations on the image, and so here is the list of his films that I believe contain something of this sort, whether it be in celluloid, flesh, or some other medium.

• Passion
• Carlito’s Way
• Femme Fatale
• Body Double
• Blow Out
• Casualties of War (if you count the girl on the subway)
• Phantom of the Paradise
• Snake Eyes
• The Black Dahlia
• Greetings
• Home Movies
• Murder à la Mod
• Redacted

Prompted by the occasion of Kiarostami’s passing, an attempt to chronicle some measure of the development of my cinephilia. An even more stream-of-consciousness post than usual.

(tentative list)

Formative Films: Blade Runner, The Battle of Algiers, Close-Up, Eraserhead, Sans soleil, Jeanne Dielman, Yi Yi

It must be said that, especially before the first wave or phase of my cinephilia, I retain random, often off-color memories from bad movies that I happened to watch; hopefully these will fade eventually. Perhaps inevitably, most of my favorites are in here, though important films/probable former first-place favorites to me, like Raiders of the Lost Ark and Back to the Future, are not.

Pooh’s Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin: at least for the foreseeable future, I think this is the first film memory I have. The timeline fits: it was released the year I was born, obviously is a children’s movie, and conceivably I could have seen it when I was only a few years old; I still remember the “skull” and the shadow of Christopher Robin (no clue on what was the first film I saw in theaters though, might go back and try to figure it out)

First Wave of Cinephilia (summer of 2013?) 2001: A Space Odyssey, City Lights, The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, Blade Runner, Citizen Kane, The Searchers, Raging Bull, Vertigo, North By Northwest, The Deer Hunter(?): some mixed reactions from this time; e.g. distinctly remember being awed by 2001, though not to the extent I am now, while my mother and sister fell asleep, and was somewhat underwhelmed by most of the latter half; kind of happy that this wave ended quickly, wasn’t nearly invested enough to truly engage with the films. From these films, Blade Runner was probably formative; remained my favorite film for an extended time and I truly was in awe of the soulful spectacle.

Autumn Semester Break Weekend 2015 (January 29-February 2) Breathless, Chinatown, La jetée, Badlands, 8 1/2, Night and Fog, The 400 Blows, Seven Samurai, Singin’ in the Rain, Casablanca, Sunrise, Tokyo Story: pretty sure that this is the weekend that restarted my cinephilia; must credit They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They for making me aware of people like Tarkovsky (and, memorably, Salo), but I don’t think it really clicked in a sense deeper than a film like Apocalypse Now until that weekend; mostly on an emotional level then but I still remember certain moments, like the marsh tracking shot and the city zoom in Sunrise, that struck me on a technical level even then.

The Battle of Algiers, Close-Up (first half of 2015, June 25): if I can call any two films formative before I started Letterboxd, it would be these two (maybe discounting 400, Sunrise, Tokyo Story). It helps that I saw these at relatively isolated points, and though I remember seeing various films like Vivre sa vie, La dolce vita, and L’avventura distinctly on their own, these two were the ones that  especially stood out, Battle for how boldly political it was (especially at a time when I was staunchly conservative) and Close-Up for its heartbreaking celebration of cinephilia; I was aware of the various techniques of both but they swept me up with such gusto, such awe.

Eraserhead (midnight June 6, 2015): this is my B.C./A.D. The visceral impact, the technical perfection, the pure nightmarish quality shook me to my core. I saw Mad Max: Fury Road later that day and was underwhelmed because of how profoundly affected I was at the time.

Sans soleil: if Close-Up is the must-see film for cinephiles, then Sans soleil is the must-see film for any living person; I remember I started to watch it but was interrupted 15 minutes in by my dad, who wanted to watch Kingsman (we both hated it); I restarted the next day and was destroyed and rebuilt.

Days of Heaven: don’t know why I chose to restart my Letterboxd (which had lain dormant with only one diary entry for Moonrise Kingdom, I think on April 18?) with this, but perhaps the move to Georgia emboldened me to usher in a new stage; last film I saw before was Grave of the Fireflies on the plane.

Jeanne Dielman/Persona: a bit unsure on these but I think these two, especially Jeanne Dielman, inform my sensibilities to a strong extent; both two immensely formal and daring works that shocked me to no end.

Yi Yi: I could put just the camera move on Ting-Ting when she’s taking out the trash on this list and it would suffice, it was such a revelatory use of simple but pure camera movement to convey  a sense of humanism, of emotion that put me in a true state of awe. The crosscutting between the first date and the reminisces was similarly revelatory, but everything felt so alive yet so precise; just so .

Queen of Earth: I remember being surprised that, in a day of seeing (and meeting!) Wenders and Melville that this film by a director I had heard little about was the best I saw. I wouldn’t necessarily  stand by this statement now, but I’m fairly certain that this was the first truly  independent film, and was an important step for me to rely slightly less on the canon.

Written for my writing class’s final paper on a topic of our choosing.

Ever since the birth of film, there has been a far greater range of views on the legitimacy of it as art compared to any other art form. A large part of the general public views it as pure entertainment, a venue made for consumption and escapism, and it is true that the cinema offers wonders heretofore unimaginable, with its ability to create spectacle visually and aurally unlike any other form of media to date. However, a vocal minority of cinephiles and critics argue for the status of film as art, extending past the popular canonical classics of films like The Godfather and Lord of the Rings to validate films as diverse as Heat and Hiroshima Mon Amour. The ways in which these movies are considered art cover the gamut of film techniques and themes, but without fail, the films that are considered the greatest center around that most universal of themes: what it means to be human.

The film that, for me best represents this spirit of the exploration of the human soul is the 1983 documentary film Sans Soleil, by Chris Marker. Of course, narrative films have a power that is just as potent in many regards, and movies like Seven Samurai and Pather Panchali are absolutely stunning in their representation of human life, but Sans Soleil, in its kaleidoscopic and fundamentally mixed view of humanity, accomplishes something that is nigh impossible in any other kind of film, or indeed in any other kind of human endeavor, by virtue of its freewheeling structure and its extensive and astonishing use of film techniques.

Fundamentally, Sans Soleil feels as if it is unclassifiable in any sort of genre. It is a beautiful blend of documentary, travelogue, and film essay that, more than anything, seeks to embody a meditative state of mind upon the journey of Chris Marker, represented in the film by Sandor Krasna. Lupton describes it as “Marker’s tour de force as a cinematic essayist, all playful musings and meandering digressions, in which passing observations on such apparently banal subjects as pet cats and video games yield profound insights into the big issues of twentieth-century civilization: history, memory, political power, the function of representation, ritual and time” (Lupton). There is an unmistakably personal bent in the perspective of the film that makes it even more difficult to pin the film in any one category, and it even has a strong affinity with the avant-garde in its coherent yet mystifying style. Complicating the documentary classification further is the approach of Marker in portraying the world and its inhabitants. It strikes a strange balance between reality and impressionism in its utilization of sound, cinematography, writing, and especially editing, but this deliberate ambiguity only enhances the engaging nature of the film and the acknowledgment of the subjectivity of the nature of human perception.

The opening of Sans Soleil is a perfect summation of all of the themes that Marker is working towards. It is one of the simplest scenes in the film, considering how close the film can come to sensory overload at times, but it is one of the most striking. The scene simultaneously acknowledges the nature of film in the narrator’s explanation of Krasna’s mindset regarding the creative decision that is made in the scene and offers a metatextual comment upon the film as a whole via the juxtaposition of the letter’s citation of “one day” even while the movie is playing out in front of the viewer’s eyes. It also comments upon both the subjectivity of every person (especially in terms of art) in the intention of the black leader film strip, yet announces itself as a universal work, as the title is shown three times, once in Russian, once in English, and once in French. The innovation is sustained as, in the very next scene, “Marker takes us from rural Iceland in 1965 to Japan in the early 1980s, with fleeting references to Africa, Ile-de-France, and the Bijagos Islands” (Rosenbaum). Through this, and every scene, Marker never overplays his hand, his musings never coming off as entirely speculative or unmotivated, and always strives in every scene to reveal at least one more thing about humanity, and succeeds without exception.

One of the key parts of Sans Soleil is the narration, both in terms of the writing and the actress giving the narration. In the letters that forms virtually all of the spoken words, Marker adopts a tone that feels both speculative and concrete, mixing both neutral, objective observations with Krasna’s (his own) subjective thoughts upon the proceedings. It is the connective tissue between the otherwise unrelated locales and visual pseudo-narratives; though the numerous letters purposely do not settle into a discernible narrative, they reframe the camera footage into another documentation of Krasna’s journey and provide thematic linkages and insights into the images onscreen, making some points clearer and some even more mysterious. Rosenbaum describes Marker’s decision as a measure designed so that he may develop “a relationship with his audience that is at once confessional and secretive, so that we’re made to feel simultaneously that we know him well and we don’t know him at all” (Rosenbaum). Just as vital is the fact that the letters are read not by Krasna, but by an actress posing as a confidante of his. It is the closest the film comes to actual dialogue, as the woman sometimes interjects her own thoughts upon Krasna’s writings, and the line between whose thoughts are being expressed blurs frequently. Stewart’s delivery is also immensely intriguing in the way that it seems to be simultaneously neutral and opinionated, reflecting ever more subtle nuances that reflect upon the endless depths of the human voice.

Though pre-existing footage is frequently used, the vast majority of the film is seen through the roving eyes of Marker’s camera. It is utterly remarkable in the way it renders Tokyo (and other cities), restless and usually mobile, yet always clear in its rendering of reality. It moves fluidly through long shots and close-ups, always feeling absolutely perfect to the subject at hand. Most importantly, it always finds a way to ultimately settle upon the human face, sometimes unobscured, sometimes in motion, but always distinctive and faithful to that person’s individuality.

Perhaps the most impressionistic part of Sans Soleil, though it is just as faithful to reality as the other elements, is the use of sound and the original score. The sound, recorded separately from the footage, is hazy and feels at a remove from the images, as if it was being heard through an invisible barrier and echoing through time and space. It makes some parts of the film feel almost hallucinatory in the way it is mixed so that it appears to fold over itself, yet it reflects reality in the way that sound flows together and no one person can hear all, or even most of the sounds going on even in his or her immediate surroundings. This quality of somewhat unsettling strangeness is compounded by the largely electronic score that weaves in and out of the recorded sound, used in a way that feels spare even though it is present for the majority of the film. It is both haunting and shimmering in the way it modulates up and down, never falling into a recognizable groove or melody but instead remaining endlessly engaging and mysterious.

More than any other element, Sans Soleil is sustained by the most cinematic of techniques, editing. It allows Marker to make grand leaps, both spatially and thematically; moving in one cut from Tokyo to Guinea-Bissau, from adult films to a picture of the pope, and perhaps most stunningly, from people sleeping on a train to media as a representation of their dreams. The choices of when exactly to cut feel astonishingly organic, no matter how far the distance between the two points is, and it is sudden without feeling at all erratic.

Marker’s choice of structure and setting is vital to his overall themes of the universality and the human experience. Though the time frame, and indeed, whether the film takes place at all in any chronological sense is highly unclear, it only further serves to simulate and emulate the nature of human memory. It blends together dates and times, jumbling events together and confusing a human being as to the who, what, when, where, why and how for virtually every event until it all becomes one singular experience, a timestream that retains life only in the general feeling, as some events stick out while others are subsumed in the depths of memory. The settings, too, run the gamut of the human experience, from the out of control modernization of Tokyo to the solidly middle class life of Iceland to the developing society of Guinea-Bissau. Yet none are as strange and as lovely as San Francisco, presented as a dream world in which another masterpiece of cinema, Vertigo, which is described as “the ultimate story of ‘impossible memory’” (Lupton) is sent and is inextricably linked to. These places all have so many things in common, and so many things that set each of them apart, but paramount is the sense of tradition, the sense of a fragmented memory, and the sense of humanity shining through.

Marker sees his subjects with, first and foremost, a sense of equality. No matter what the person’s lot in life is or their age or gender, he focuses in on them with the same intentness and attitude, leaving it up to the subject how to respond. Through this mass accumulation of so many faces, he assembles a universal view of humanity that is feels both fearful and hopeful. In a world that is rapidly changing, the human spirit is threatened by the march of time, as it forgets more and more of its memories and ways of living, a fact displayed most by the use of The Zone. It is a beautiful and terrifying place that represents reality just as clearly as the human memory, but it, as an extension of technology as a whole threatens to supplant what it means to truly be human Marker’s act is thus to capture these, in all of their glory, in all their beauty and gracelessness. It is ultimately optimistic in its belief in the persistence of the human spirit, but it is only more mysterious and lovely in its ambiguity. A towering film that is both overpowering and devastatingly personal, a profoundly universal work of art that affirms everything about humanity, both for the worse and for the better.

Only a film, done in such a manner, could reflect reality in this way; only film has such a blend of sight, sound, and especially tangibility to captivate the viewer and enlighten them. Sans Soleil is only one of many films, and of even more works of art, that represents the human experience so profoundly, but, thanks to the creative vision of Marker, only Sans Soleil can show it in such a uniquely revelatory fashion.

This is a close comparison of various aspects of Lost in Translation and Her, and as such, spoilers will likely result, so read at your own discretion. Credits for more than a few thoughts and for sparking my new way of thinking on these two films to Cameron Morewood.

After seeing Her a second time, it felt clear to me that Lost in Translation was better in ever conceivable way. Sure, the aspirations of Her might be greater, but in execution, it seems as if Sofia Coppola is more risky and more successful at everything both auteurs attempt.

It is difficult, in a way, to compare the two films note for note, as I view Lost in Translation as fundamentally not a romance movie. It does have, ultimately a kiss between the two (which I did feel was more platonic than romantic), but it is ultimately a film about connection and friendship, about the need to cling onto someone in the troubles of modern life. Her, by comparison, is a more standard romantic film with a twist, but they are more comparable than most films because of the through-line connecting the two: the relationship and the divorce between the two writers. There is no doubt that this has infused both films, informing both the subject and each director’s approach to it. While Coppola takes a more oblique and clever approach that makes the film much more satisfying and enchanting, Jonze constructs his film in a box. It is true that he does quite well in this space, but he seems almost obsessed with making his film absolutely polished and perfect that he fails to think outside of the box, making the emotions of the film seem hollow and more than a little predictable.

The scene that crystallizes Jonze’s approach in confronting his divorce is the very final scene, in which Theodore dictates his letter to Catherine. Throughout the film, the various flashbacks to his relationship feel unmotivated; the emotional effect can be accomplished in one montage, while the film uses at least 3 or 4 (the effect is accomplished in the film proper by the montage that takes place while Catherine is signing the divorce papers). I was left to wonder just what purpose the repetition served, and then realized during the final scene that the ultimate point of the film was for Jonze to work out his feelings over what had happened between him and Coppola. Essentially, the letter can be seen as an apology to her, and while that might be all well and good in the real world, it detracts from the thematic ideas of the film as a whole. By focusing the attention on Theodore’s relationship with Catherine, Jonze devalues the potential complexity and intensity of the relationship between Theodore and Samantha, and ultimately makes the film all about Theodore’s character, with Samantha present simply to support him.

Samantha’s character is, admittedly, not exclusively a crutch for Theodore, but she is nowhere near as fleshed out as Charlotte. Charlotte is without a doubt an independent character, someone who actually has scenes that take place apart from Bob, and focuses a lot of attention on her difficulties in her relationship with her husband and her relative insecurity and doubts. Samantha, by contrast, has very few desires of her own, and while the idea of her being an AI is quite interesting, almost all of her development is directly related to her status as an AI and thus fulfills the science-fiction aspect of the film while developing the emotional aspect only on the part of Theodore’s character, as Samantha is left to simply leave without much development besides the rote statement of her eternal love for him.

The setting of both films is crucial to their identity and outlook on their subject matter. Lost in Translation could not have been set anywhere besides 2000s Japan; Tokyo (as portrayed in the film) is a strange hybrid between the traditional rituals and the hypermodern aesthetic and worldview. It is never portrayed as menacing or mean, but it always feels alien, not just in the language barrier but in the way the electronic overload dwarfs the characters. By contrast, the Los Angeles of Her, despite being in a “20 minutes in the future” setting, feels more familiar than the real-life setting of Lost. It is a world that never feels anything but friendly and inviting, a mood enhanced by the lavish set design and cinematography which, while visually impressive, only serves to dispel any feelings of isolation or alienation, two feelings that permeate Lost. It is counter to the emotional connection that I feel towards Theodore’s and Samantha’s relationship; it feels like it has less vitality because it feels less necessary for Theodore. Though he may be going through an extremely tough time in his life emotionally, the event that leads to his acquiring of an OS, the strange encounter with the phone sex cat lady, is fundamentally linked with the world and with technology, so there is no drive for connection that Bob and Charlotte feel, either in a romantic or nonromantic sense.

This feeling is compounded by the presence of Amy. She provides a character with little characterization of her own and is present almost solely to provide Theodore a shoulder to lean on. This idea further dilutes the importance of Samantha to Theodore, as he can confide in someone else at many points in the film rather than relying on just himself and Samantha to work things out. By contrast, Bob and Charlotte have no one at all to help them. Both characters have uncaring spouses and are isolated by the aforementioned setting, and thus must rely on each other in order to survive. This approach has the added benefit of making scenes like the club scene and the karaoke scene seem almost magical, where people come together in communion, in a celebration of life, a depth of feeling that Her never comes that close to.

The endings of the respective films, too, take entirely different approaches. Lost in Translation goes for a certain type of ambiguity that is both an affirmation of the friendship and special connection the two have shared and a gesture of defeat; both must ultimately go their separate ways, and the expression on Bob’s face when he gets back into his limousine is one of weariness; he is happy and better for the experience, but it is tempered, and the song that plays is one that feels both triumphant and yearning. By contrast, Her‘s ending is almost excessively enclosed and neat, fitting and accentuating Jonze’s approach. Theodore gets over absolutely all of his problems and it seems all but guaranteed that he will get back together with Amy, especially with that final cute, heartwarming, yet superfluous gesture, and the song is as transparently emotional and surface-level as the scene it occupies.

This is not to say that Her is a bad film. It approaches its subject with warmth and sensitivity, does a lovely job of portraying its world and its inhabitants, and the screenplay is quite lovely indeed. Unfortunately, it feels too concerned with its own neatness, and pales immensely in the face of something as inexplicably mysterious and beautiful as Lost in Translation. Coppola understood that the real world is messy and complicated, and made a movie that accurately depicted that, reflecting her feelings on the divorce through mood and setting, while Jonze was too enraptured by his affection towards Coppola and towards his ideas and thus he tinged them with an excessive amount of warmth and sentimentality, making his feelings on the divorce transparent by constructing the plot entirely upon that idea. Her is ultimately not about the romance between Theodore and Samantha; it is about the romance between Theodore and Catherine, and thus, the romance between Jonze and Coppola.

A sequence analysis I wrote for my Introduction to Film Studies class (all except half of the first paragraph was written in a single day).

Dancer in the Dark is a film that is indebted to certain traditions. The most readily apparent manifestation of this influence is from the Dogme 95 movement, of which Lars von Trier was a founder. The stipulations of handheld camera movement, no post-synchronized sound, and lack of genre are followed during most of the film, which only enhances the strange, fantastical quality of the music sequences, particularly the musical sequence present in this clip. Though sound and music are of course a key part of this separation, the use of mise en scene is just as vital. Mise en scene is, fundamentally, the way in which the elements in front of the camera are assembled, including composition, cinematography, acting, and sets. Therefore, virtually all of the visual information that is conveyed in the film can be traced back to the concept of mise en scene. The question I will be exploring in this analysis is: Why is mise en scene, in all of its various components, used to depict the dreams and fantasies of Selma in Dancer in the Dark?

Within the first few seconds of the sequence, a break between Selma’s reality and fantasy is established by a sudden and noticeable change in cinematography. As can be seen in the first three seconds, the majority of the film is filmed in a handheld style with a limited and grayish color palate. This is intended to immerse the viewer into the grim reality which Selma faces, and could be interpreted as representing her worsening eyesight. But during the musical sequences, these techniques are discarded for a style that is more befitting a conventional film. The colors are considerably brighter (it is unclear whether this was done through lighting and cinematography or in post-production editing) and over a hundred static cameras are placed around the space in which the musical numbers occur replacing the handheld camera. Even for shots that are close-ups or extreme close-ups, the static nature of the camerawork makes the film less visually immersive compared to the rest of the film. It constitutes a clear shift from the troubled real world in which Selma faces nothing but suffering and struggle to a world of her own dreams. In a way, it bears a strong resemblance to the musicals that Selma enjoys and envisions herself being in, such as The Sound of Music or the musical films that she watches with Kathy, not just in terms of the music but in the exuberant spirit of filmmaking and stylization that both the musicals and these dream sequences share.

Another readily apparent element of this change is depicted through the sequence’s heavy use of camera placements and angles that would be impossible if they were filmed from a handheld perspective. Indeed, the very first dream sequence shot is a very high angle shot that appears to be filmed from the ceiling, a shot that would be routine in a more conventional film but is out of character with the real-world scenes in the film. The next shot is from outside of the window of a two-story house, which is again another conventional but realistically impossible shot. These two shots are utilized more than a few times throughout the sequence, tying the film to the lineage of the film musicals before it. There are even cameras affixed to the Gene’s bicycle, one to the axis of his bicycle and one to what appears to be his handlebar in an approximation of the handheld close-up in its movement, though the camera is clearly placed statically. The shots are also combined with the strong, stylized use of Dutch angles in the camera placements, which is also apparent in many of the closer shots. This use of camera angles is at odd with both musical films and with the preceding musical sequences in the film, which are filmed from relatively straight on angles that render the film in, if not realistic, then aesthetically conventional points of view. Instead, ceiling shots, shots from close to the floor, and even shots from outside the windows are placed at a skewed angle. This could be interpreted as Selma losing control of her fantasy to the violence that has just occurred in the real world.

The composition of the characters and objects is another key element in both the hopeful nature of the dream and the intrusion of reality into Selma’s previously undisturbed fantasy. For the most part, the actors seem to glide through the frame, with very few shots of the actors remaining static. Instead, the actors seem to engage in some sort of strange dance, as they twirl and seem to pose in various positions, only to move again. This can be seen as a clear extension of the musical influence on the film and the nature of the musical number, which is often strongly choreographed. In this film however, the emphasis is less on technical and physical (and musical) prowess and more on the expressive nature of these somewhat clumsy movements. The first indication of the composition contributing to the dreamlike nature of the sequence is the appearance of Bill’s wife, who is filmed through a window at a Dutch angle from a room Selma is not in. The rest of the film sticks for the most part to Selma’s perspective and point of view, or at least that of her immediate environment, but this shot is one of the few that takes place in a setting that takes place where Selma is absent. This is also perhaps the first fantastical image that occurs in this sequence, as she was last seen leaving the house to call the police to have them arrest Selma. Her passivity and body posture instead indicates a certain manner of acceptance of Selma’s actions. Though she does not verbally reassure Selma or even approach her in this clip, her simple inaction is a deliberately unrealistic event that belongs to Selma’s dreams. This is made dramatically clear in Selma’s resurrection of Bill, who holds no ill will towards Selma and even shows remorse for his own actions. They embrace and move as close friends, even closer than they ever were when he was still alive, yet another expression of the fantasy that this sequence takes place in. This is capped off by the appearance of Gene, riding his bicycle in circles while reassuring Selma of her actions, a fact which he should not have any knowledge of in the real world. This action can also be seen as representative of Selma’s ultimate hope throughout the film, which is that Gene would be able to see. He would not be able to ride the bicycle so well if his eyesight was failing, and thus this action is the ultimate representative of Selma’s dreams, of her ultimate goal in life.

It must be said that this sequence is still grounded somewhat in reality, and reminders of the violence that has just occurred are spread throughout the scene. The death of Bill is still acknowledged as a real event through the singing and through the blood on his face, which is made deliberately clear through his cleansing of his face. There are also many red and pink-hued objects throughout the sequence, which serve as a symbolic reminder of the blood that permeates and tinges the fantasy. Finally, there is an extreme close-up of the gun near the beginning of the sequence, presented in a cold and objective perspective, though the fact that Selma and Bill leave the room of the murder could indicate her attempts to reject the murder.

All of these elements are used in the overall mise en scene in order to differentiate this and other sequences like it from the other sequences of the film that take place in reality. It is a representation of the way that Selma sees the world through her escapist fantasies, through her ability to find rhythms in her surroundings, her ability to slip into her dreams of her musical aspirations, and her struggle to celebrate life rather than be consumed by it. It is a world in which she can give in to her hopes and dreams and ignore the grim reality that she is forced to confront in her own passive way. In this particular sequence, her dreams become even more fantastical and important to her, as she is unwilling to accept reality and thus finds solace in the words and arms of the people she has personally affected through her well-intentioned but catastrophic actions. The mise en scene is necessary in this regard, as the sequence is more fantastical to Selma than any other scene up to this point, and as such the stylized aspects of the musical sequences are the most dreamlike and unrealistic of the entire film. Selma has only one place, her dreams, in which to escape, and in the moment when she most needs to escape, her fantasies act as reassurance and relief from reality.