Tower

I'm watching a documentary called Tower about a campus shooting in Austin, 1966.

A pregnant woman and her boyfriend were shot, her boyfriend died. A professor walks by, not hearing the shots and is disgusted with them, "Pick up your books and get up," he says.

This reminds me of some who respond with disdain to those who suffer in poverty or under racism or with those oppressed by our government. "Get up," they say angrily. Those trapped say, "Could you get us some help?" But because the disdainful don't see the danger, don't see the blood --don't see the horror that exists for all of us, but especially those racially, sexually, economically and religiously vulnerable-- they ignore the plight and resume living ignorantly. Mocking those in pain and tragedy because they don't feel it.

***

I am shocked as to how much human experience one can pack into an hour and a half under the hot Texas sun. Victims, heroes and observers of a horrible sniper shooting at the University of Texas in Austin speak about their experience, actions and emotions in the most dramatic hour of their lives.

It feels so much like a Richard Linklater film, perhaps it is very influenced by his work. Rotoscope, Austin, real conversations speaking on intense, big subjects... I was all ready to love this film. Even so, it was more dramatic and personal than I expected. Everyone seemed so real-- funny, hopeful, brave, entranced, scared. It's a powerful film, not only about that day, but about the human reaction to death.

Reinterpretation of Life: Kubo and the Two Strings

I want to make my case why Kubo is not only the best animated movie of the year, but among a few best films of the year.  I haven't read any reviews that really get deep into the film beyond it's beauty, so I thought I'd write something that helps folks see how I saw it.

If you never saw this film on the big screen, then I don’t think you could really appreciate the line, “If you must blink, do it now.”  On the one hand, it is a line of a marketplace storyteller, the hyperbole of the campaigner, the exaggeration of the ad man.  But in the context of this most artful film of an artful studio, it is simple reality, without any stretching of the truth.  The film keeps the promise of this line with stunning sets and eye-popping animation.  I honestly didn’t want to blink.  And in those sets, the new direction of clamation, the master-stroke of this studio is presented and I didn’t want to close my eyes for a moment.  Right after I saw it, I wanted to see it again.

Part of this is not just due to the art.  Frankly, this story resonates within me.  It is the hero’s journey, which I love in its many forms from The Odyssey to Lord of the Rings to Star Wars to Moana.  But here, the hero’s journey is joined with the boy’s adventure, filled with dangers and adventures.  It is 1001 Arabian Nights and The Thief of Baghdad and The Boy’s King Arthur, as well as The Neverending Story.  It is monsters and enemies and magic and secrets and mythology, all revealed in a powerful mix.  If this were released in 1977, I would have gone to the theatre twelve times to see this instead of Star Wars, for the fine mix of hero’s journey and magical adventure resonates perfectly to my boy’s heart.

Add in the wonderful music, simple and emotionally resonant, as well as each relationship being a form of love and charity and I am sold.  All I need is a great theme and this film will be one of the great films of all time.

The theme, however, is considered one of the weaknesses of the film.  Everyone recognizes that it is about the power of stories, but most folks feel that it isn’t really saying anything new or interesting.  I would like to challenge that assumption.   But to do so requires an overview of the film.  And spoilers.

* * *

The story is about Kubo, a young storyteller who cares for his addled mother in a cave, and who is loved by a nearby town.  Disaster strikes when his aunts, daughters of the Moon, find him and cruelly bind him to take him to the Moon to take his eye out.  He escapes, to find his mother gone and he is led by a magical monkey, an origami representation of his father and a beetle-man to find his dead father’s armor.

The quest for the armor is a McGuffin, but it gives us an opportunity to see relationships grow, to see his parents fall in love again, to see Kubo learn his values on his own, not just because his mother taught them to him.

The plot is really a loose collection of events that barely hang together, as any epic odyssey is a collection of events.  As in any hero’s quest, the significance is the opportunities for the hero to learn significant lessons, which reach a climax of the hero’s stand.

But what we see by the end of the film is the figure who is always there, always making events occur, always watching, but never speaking until the film is ready to end: Kubo’s grandfather, the Moon.  We see that the film was always about the relationship between Kubo and his grandfather, and the challenge between the values each stands for.   The grandfather is a gentle man who just wants the respect he is due, and sees the world through eyes of logic.  Kubo is the product of that heritage, but also the heritage of his father who values relationship above logic and honor.  And of his mother, who chose love over the ways of his grandfather.  So far, so good.  Nothing really unique here.

The climax is what changes the perspective.  The grandfather, the Moon, is is transformed into humanity because of his desire to be connected to his grandson.  He wanted his grandson to be like him, to show him the respect his daughter and son in law didn’t display.  To reject his humanity and take on eternity.  But Kubo couldn’t refuse his heritage, and so brought his grandfather into his family.  The key is that the moon agreed to take part in Kubo’s story—the story of the battle between the evil but strong moon the  noble but weak boy. The moon took on Kubo’s story, that of him fighting a monster.  The moon chose to be a monster, thinking he could defeat Kubo with his own story.  But Kubo changed his story in the middle, so that it was no longer about a battle against a monster, but the story of a family, joined by experiences and uniting in their differences.  When the stark, cold moon took on a side in Kubo’s story, he could be transformed into a human, blended from both eternity and temporal, heavenly and earth.

What was an epic battle between good and evil became a story of thesis (the moon), antithesis (the parents) and synthesis (Kubo).  Kubo then uses the story to transform the moon into his own image—a kind man.  Kubo re-interprets his story and so re-interprets his grandfather who agreed to take part in Kubo’s story.

So the theme is not about the victory of story, but about the victory of reinterpretation.  About changing the paradigm and so changing reality.

What is a child supposed to get out of this? That his parents are not what they seem; everyone has their own point of view; family is the joining of contradictions; our life is the continuing story of our parent’s lives.  But I think what we can get out of it is more important.  How do we interpret our lives?  Rather than asking whether the interpretation is the closest one to the “truth”, rather we should ask if the interpretation is the one that benefits everyone.  Is a good v. evil story really what makes unity, what makes joy for all?  Or is there another way of creating a story of our lives that draws all people in?

Arrival: Communication and Truth

Chatter, beautiful noise, static, prattle, nonsensical, overwhelming talk.  It is Starbucks music to my soul, easily ignored until I despise it, ready to attack. It is my fear and focus of my anger, and yet, and yet, it is the core of love.

Arrival begins near the end of Close Encounter.  After the Up-like prologue (another few minutes and I'd have been bawling), the aliens have arrived and the government was communicating with them.  But they are at an impasse, so they gather Louise Banks and Ian Donnelly to find out what is really going on-- are the aliens attacking, are they wanting to help?  The pair immediately are allowed on one of the ships. Ian looks at the landscape scientifically, overjoyed with new discoveries, but scared out of his wits internally.  Louise is a linguist, and she clearly is frightened, but the enormity of the puzzle captivates her.  How will she learn to speak to these octopii who don't share even the fundamentals of human language?  Stakes raise, there is betrayal and power trips and so much more, getting to the core of human nature.

I was captivated. The aliens were simply not alien enough for me, and the communication happened too quickly, even under such enormous time pressures.  But so much of it is wonderful.  First of all, thank you, thank you, that the central event doesn't take place in New York or San Francisco, but the middle of nowhere in Montana.  Similar to Close Encounters' Wyoming, perhaps, but good enough for me.  The script lays out both the political puzzle and the intellectual exercise with increasing drama on both sides, increasing the tension and curiosity.  The score is easily the best one this year, both appropriate and innovative (I'm listening to it again right now).  The acting was fine, perhaps Whittiker was distracting occasionally, and the effects were thankfully subdued so as not to distract.  Frankly, this tops my list for this year.

***

Would that I had time to explain the themes of the film, so rich, full of the back and forth of seeking that which is most important.

There are, in this human world, two themes that push and pull us.  Language v. Science, Communication v. Truth.
Communication opens doors; to truth before communication is to close doors
Communication empathizes; truth assumes
Communication is human; truth is nature
Communication leads to mercy; truth is without compromise

Truth does not give any space for the human, for the person, the individual doesn’t matter

Communication is the necessary white around the yoke of truth, it comes before, it comes after, it cushions, it comforts, it is the home of truth.

Truth, without that cushion, is a hard, bare stone.  Impossible to swallow.


Fear does not close communication, but allowing fear to rule closes all paths to truth.

The Tribe: Seeing the World through Deaf Eyes

Do you hear that sound? That is what nothing sounds like. The funny thing about nothing is that, on this planet, it does not exist. Even the deaf hear, through their fingertips.

I spent about ten years in the deaf world. I was professionally an interpreter for the hearing impaired for that time. I attended their churches, went to their parties, attended their classes, visited deaf professors, went to their concerts (yes, they have concerts) and hung out with students. And in all that time there is one word that I would never describe the deaf world, which is silent. Every conversation is punctuated with guttural and popping sounds. Their lives are filled with loud music, because some hard of hearing folks can hear it, barely, and others can feel it. There are hearing aids making loud pitched noises that the owner is unaware of. There is always banging and loud pounding to get people's attention and because no one is going to complain about the noise.

So the idea that The Tribe is mostly silent is the opposite of what I expected. These deaf people are more like very active ghosts than real deaf folks, more reminiscent of the shadows in Vampyr I just saw. And I think it goes along with the point. At first, the decision to not translate the sign language I thought was to make a film directed toward the deaf. But I know ASL, and while the folks in the deaf school used a variant of ASL, it was mostly unknown to me. Only the deaf from the region of Europe they are in could make it all out. I got enough clues to know that most of the dialogue is conversation about what is just about to happen, so no one is missing more than nuances. And deaf folks couldn't get it anyway. Sometimes conversations are filmed from their backs, so no one could read the signs. It's all artfully done, but communication isn't the point.

In fact, it is the opposite of the point. What we have here is a form of Meek's Cutoff, where the hearing audience can understand for a couple hours what it is like to be deaf. There is a whole society around you and you can only make out clues as to what is going on, because no one is including you. And if you are not specifically thought of and spoken directly to, then events and motivations and intents are mysterious, until they are done and you had no idea what was happening. Even then, you might wonder, "why are they doing this" and only have clues as to the answer.

The deaf person's most common question to a hearing person is, "What did they say?", which is the very question the hearing person asks again and again in this movie, but knowing that they aren't going to get an answer, they just remain silent, mystified, and mostly bored until something exciting, which one could never anticipate, happened. It is a full turning of the tables.

But most hearing people wouldn't understand. They would just say, "That film was just annoying." Right on. You got it.

Still, it is a slow gangster flick. I agree with the point, and I get it. That doesn't mean I was entertained as much as I was enlightened.

Midnight Special

If an event or unique feature of reality is discovered, the pundits come and point their fingers at it, declaring its hidden reality.

The government looks at it through the eyes of fear, wondering if it might undermine the status quo.

Religion looks at it through patriarchal eyes, trying to fit it into religion’s vortex of power, and its apocalyptic narrative of salvation.

But suppose the feature was a little boy, born of normal parents.  How would they see this event? The idea is presented in a complex way by The Exorcist or We Need to Talk about Kevin.  Here, it is presented in a simpler, Spielbergian format.  The parents are full of love for the boy and just wants what is best for him, which means they must run from the government and religion who has their own assumptions at the forefront, even if that means the boy’s welfare is secondary.

I think that the area that most commentators have trouble with Midnight Special is the use of religion, which is something Spielberg rarely commented on.  They are uncomfortable with the realistic touches, but never really grasping what the religion was up to.  The government was almost a cliché, but the religious aspect was confusing.

I think this is because the Jeff Nichols is very familiar with religion, as are most citizens of the South.  The background and assumptions of the actions of religion are easy to understand, and the director felt that he had given enough hints for a person familiar with the world to understand.

I think, however, that religion, especially American religion, really is a mystery for most watchers of the film.  The boy of the light, of the dreams, is a text, much like the Bible.  The text is simple description, but religion comes to interpret the text in a way that makes sense with their patriarchy, with a pure way of life.  The text contains misleading statements, to distract from the core, the significant information, but religion must receive it all as God-breathed, as if all had equal weight.

The boy is also an experience, bringing comfort to many, even an obsession to experience it again.  Religion, again, must interpret and control the experience, giving it to those who are worthy and withholding it from those who are not.  Religion is about the divide between the pure and the impure by whatever measure their traditional culture is comfortable using.

In the end, the film is right.  Religion is a manner of looking at a unique reality, but it never grasps the core.  The core is love, which is benefiting the welfare of the other.  In this case, the other is the boy himself.  The parents alone, with a couple helpers, have that love.  And love is dangerous, for it disrupts the status quo.  Religion and government must, in the end, oppose love when love disrupts.  Religion and government are about retaining the knowledge and way of life that they appreciate and understand.  Love lets the new reality settle in, because people are at stake. 

Knight of Cups

Love is the answer
All you need is Love
What the world needs now is Love, sweet Love
Give me Love, give me Love, give me peace on earth

After Badlands, Terrance Malick has become less and less interested in narrative.  His plots are not so much stories as outlines on which to hang prayers, quotes, silent conversations and aphorisms.  They are not stories so much as meditations on themes found in stories, while the events fade more and more into the background.  To watch a Malick film is not to wonder what will happen next, but to learn about reality.  For this reason, there is a divide between watchers of his films—those who grow to hate them because of their apathy about narrative and those who desire them because they teach us how to live.

On the surface, Knight of Cups is about Christopher Bale, a successful man in Hollywood, watching him grasp and fail at relationship after relationship.  Looks of love, lust, anger, doubt and disdain pass over the faces of the characters, while their silent questions and longings we hear over the meditative soundtrack.  

In a sense, this is a gentle sermon on vice.  How one should not live a life.  Sermons on vice are the most difficult to sell in this day and age.  No one wants to be told what not to do.  They want to know about possibilities, about freedom.  Malick asserts that true freedom can only be held in true love, but there are many distractions in the world that keep us from truly understanding love.

Love/Grace is the answer, what creates the world, what grows the new into peace.

Why, when there are so many pursuing love that things get so screwed up?  Many who proclaim Love and live Love are as depressed, as despondent, as desperate as anyone else.  How can this be?  If Love is the answer, shouldn’t it be the answer for everyone?

The problem is that those looking for Love seek love instead.  The seeker of Love heads into the world

People forget that they are looking for pure love, and get distracted by the many things that look and feel similar to love, but isn’t.  Lust, jealousy, control, wielding power, promiscuity, fantasy, adultery—all of these look like love from a certain viewpoint, but all fall short of what love is really about.  It is about seeing, really seeing the person in front of you and providing them with a human connection.

Just knowing that isn’t enough, however.  We have to go through a certain path to achieve Love.  We must rid ourselves of distractions, of the many voices and mini-dramas of our lives, and simply, quietly, silently find Love within ourselves.  This is the beginning of our life of Love.

Knight of Cups is a difficult film.  It is difficult to see pieces of narrative without a cohesive whole.  It is difficult to see visions, no matter how beautiful, without a real resolution, without a real conclusion.  This is a film about the life of the soul, which is difficult to see, so Malick made it difficult to watch.  We are to feel, to listen.  For a film so busy with fleeting images, chopped conversations and with quotes from Augustine, Pilgrim’s Progress and more, it is difficult for it to lead us to its ultimate goal: get away from all this and be silent.  It means to make us uncomfortable with the busyness of the world, and to seek a pure Love. 

The Lobster: An Existential Fable

I found that the danger of watching the Lobster is laughing too hard at it.  Unless I am willing to laugh equally hard at myself.

The director/writer of a trilogy of film said of his first two films that Dogtooth was about a created fiction to protect their children from reality.  That Alps was about a self-imposed fiction in order to protect oneself from grief, for our own good.

In taking that idea to the next stage, what if all of society was a fabrication?  What if we needed to hide reality from our own eyes in order to keep us all conformed to an artificial structure?

It might be easy to look at The Lobster and see it as a ridiculous comedy, full of insane situations.  But we see situations like these daily.  Do we not feel the threat of sexual nonconformity, the ostracism, even physical threat?  Are not many willing to accept idiocy and clear fiction for the sake of conformity? 

Are many not willing to go through gross and disgusting physical deformities (which might be called “augmentation”  in order to maintain the façade of love that has nothing to do with those deformities? 

Does not our society create a series of verbal and physical facades in order to perpetuate a false pretense of romance and marital bliss?   Of course society’s restrictions are not just about sexual mores but also class and culture and security and on and on.  When we look at society’s fictions they pile ever higher.

Our fictions go ever deeper.  As if presidential elections change anything, as if our jobs our meaningful, as if our enemies were really enemies and no fellow human beings, as if making changes in our lives do anything else but establish our placement in a different level of the self-appointed façade.

The Lobster invites us to laugh at ourselves.  To see the facades for what they really are. And also to see the dangers of the fictions we blindly accept.

I am tempted to ask the question, "Was it good?".  But I'm not sure a vision of a subversive, existential prophetic vision should be limited to such words as "good" or "entertaining."  That kind of misses the point, doesn't it?

Is Hail, Caesar! Worth the Suffering?

In my mind, there are three general types of Coen Bros. films:

a. crime

b. comedy

c. existential

    ...or some combination of these.

I think Hail, Caesar is some mix of the last two categories. On the surface, it is all comedy with a love-letter/critique of golden age Hollywood. The five mini-films included are perfect renditions of the classic genres, all with a comic twist. And there is a perfect comedy routine between Ralph Fiennes and Alden Ehrenreich, which although given in a trailer is still a joy.

In the end, however, the meaning is existential. The bookends are of Eddie Mannix, the historic "fixer" of MGM studios, (not a good man, in any way) in confession, attempting to reconcile himself with his sins. The struggle is whether small bad acts can add to a good end.

And anyone looking at the history of Hollywood could easily question whether movies are worth it. Lately I have been pouring over thepodcast You Must Remember This where Karina Longworth goes through the"hidden or lost history of Hollywood of the Twentieth Century", in aset of audio essays, brilliantly told. But the stories she tells are dark, at times disturbing. Like the story of Eddie Mannix. All these broken marriages, all this money spent for lighthearted fluff, all these twisted lives-- are the movies we enjoy worth it?

I suppose the Coens ask themselves the same question. All the money they spend for their films, all the hurt, all the hardship... is it worth it? To a certain degree, I think they are giving themselves a cop-out-- sure, guys, compared to participating with the atomic bomb, making movies is a much better occupation.

But is it better than spending the same money on the homeless, on AIDS victims, on immunizing the world's children, on providing clean drinking water? Can the billions we spend on movies be better spent?

For the Coens, I'd say the answer is a clear "yes." In the end, there are a lot of bad things that go into making films, including the amount of money spent, but there is a "spiritual message" a heroism, an opening of the conscience that we might not be able to get any other way. There is a cost, sometimes a horrible cost, but in the end, it's all worth it for that message.

I am still torn. Admittedly, I spend a moderate amount of personal dollars on movies and personal time. I do that so that I can get a break from my other work, to "forget about life for a while." I think about the end message of Sullivan's Travels, that movies provide joy for the joyless. But are they just an opium for the masses? An evil, although small, that could do more, that harms some, but we accept because of the small good they produce? It is entertainment we receive worth the megalomania of Lars Von Trier and Errol Flynn? Is it worth the destruction of the Madonna/Sean Penn marriage, the downfall of Judy Garland?

What about the children, the grown-ups who take movies as a blueprint for their misguided lives?  Me included?

But aren't movies, and the celebrities they inevitably create simply a microscope of the lives and thoughts we struggle with as society? An opportunity to see the result of our thoughts on a big stage? The outgrowth of philosophies we actually hold to? In movies we can see the result of the redemptive violence philosophy, both good and bad. In movies we can see the romance myth encouraged and debunked. In movies are laid out bare the cowardice and hopes of all humankind.

I'm not the one to say whether movies are moral or not, I guess. For now, they are here to stay and they are essential to my life and many others. I guess, in the end, I have to say that they are important to me. After all, were it not for a movie, I would have never had this reflection.

Experimenter: Obedience and Ethics

Experimenter is a playful biography of Stanley Milgram, a professor of socio-psychology in mid-20th-century New York.  It is an experiment, aiming toward a point, just as if it had been directed by Milgram himself.  It goes back and forth between biography and ideas, constantly rephrasing the truths that made up the foundation of Milgram's life.

Stanley Milgram is a cold fish. He speaks with a monotone, views crowds of people as experiments, and is willing to deceive in order to discover truth.  Sure, he has a wry sense of humor and a quirky way of looking at the world, but still, he seems almost alien.

That's the way many people feel under the gaze of an INTJ (a personality type, sometimes called "the scientist").  A person whose inner thoughts drive her to improve the world, but in strange ways that might seem manipulative or rebellious.  Yet people regard her as distant, removed from everyday life.

I have personally experienced this.  I'm an INTJ, too.  We make up less than two percent of the population, and for many people that's all for the good.  We don't follow rules very well.  But we figure things out in unique ways.

For myself, I have set my sights on the "homeless problem" (not that any people are a problem).  And so I am constantly battling city code so that my homeless friends might have places to sleep, and opportunities to survive and thrive.  I created a work program and a three-day homeless camp, and gave the homeless people jobs with housing and formed networks of churches to open their doors to allow the homeless in.  For my unique ways of working with the poorest in our society, I've been told that I cause homelessness and that I am to blame for the "homeless problem" in my community.

You gotta shrug that stuff off.  It's gunna happen.

Professor Milgram understands this.  He was trying to understand the basis of how a community can participate in evil, such as many nations participated in the destruction of the Jews under Nazi rule.  So he created a famous experiment which shows how deeply we hold obedience to authority.  He had people apply (fictional) electric shocks to a subject when he failed a question on a test when an authority took the responsibility for the results.  Authority, he discovered, erases personal responsibility, and allows one to participate in acts that they know are evil.  They give one allowance to ignore and to even support the worst actions.

And for this he discovery he was persecuted.  Of course, he was a cold fish, a person many people wouldn't like.  Removed, like the authorities he pulled the rug out from under.

And can truth be discovered through deception?  Can authority be undermined by imposing authority?

But I think Milgram wasn't trying to undermine authority.  He is trying to give a basis for acting morally, no matter what the circumstances.  To say that there is a time to do what is right, to speak up for what is right no matter who is telling us otherwise.

Like when we see someone being harassed and moved on by the police in the middle of winter.
Like when churches are told they can't open their doors to let people in from the cold overnight.
Like when the homeless are told to leave and go somewhere else-- anywhere else--
again
and again
and again
and again.

Sometimes we just have to do what is right, no matter what anyone else says. 

Crimson Peak

Instead of being a monster film, like I might expect from del Toro, this is really a classy gothic. Sure, it has ghosts, pretty creepy scary ghosts, but it really has more in common with Gaslight or Hitchcock's Rebecca. Still, it hits the two Hitchcock high "Cs" hard and strong: Classy and Creepy.

Edith Cushing is ten years old when her mother died, and then visited her as a ghost, warning her about "Crimson Peak." More than a decade later, as an aspiring writer, her life is turned upside down by falling in love with Baronet Tom Hiddleston (which I'm sure happened to many a girl) and her father tragically dying. She marries Tom and moves into his estate, which she didn't know was also called "Crimson Peak."

Every frame of this film is exotic and full of life. It is simply beautiful or powerful. The casting was amazing as well, where Mia Wasikowska is perfect as the doll-like woman attempting to be frail for her husband, but is really strong. Tom Hiddleston is the frail man attempting to act strong and Jessica Chastain is simply creepy in every scene. I think it is a misnomer to call the film a "horror" at all. It isn't even a "thriller" because there is little surprise in how the plot turns out. But as a gothic (with horror elements), it is expertly measured, and a visual feast.

A Deadly Lust: Two films by Claire Denis

For Claire Denis, sex is a hazardous decision.  Gone is the thought that one might casually, flippantly hold the attitude of Marline Dietrich, “It’s just sex.”  Sex is a life-and-death compulsion, it drives and destroys in equal measures, it is a deadly lust.  Dare anyone call these films “erotic”?  They do not titillate, but rather warn.  And we wince.

The title “Bastards” really says it all.  Men manipulating, forcing themselves upon women, using them and casting them aside as an old sex doll.  Men, all men it seems, are so goal-oriented that nothing will stand in their way, but their goal is never relationship, but relationship is used as a means to their ends.  A female human being is simply a hurdle, a means, but never the end in and of themselves.  One man might be considered a good father, another might be a good uncle, but they are never, nor do they have the capacity to be, a caring husband, a stirring lover.  The good male companion is a fantasy, never to be fully fleshed out because they never give more than a cursory glance at their partner.

In “Trouble Every Day” lust is a drive to consume.  Perhaps we have experienced this—our love of a child might cause us to pinch them, to claim, “I could just eat you up!”  But in this film the compulsion for sex is always accompanied with the drive to devour flesh.  This leads to a couple of the most disturbing sex scenes possibly every put upon screen—revolting, disgusting.  And yet, and yet…  Perhaps Denis is speaking about addictive personalities, perhaps she is opening up the fetish can of worms in which lust occasionally leads down darker paths.  Or perhaps she is revealing something about all of us, that in the end our lust is about our appetite, and no matter how we try in the end our compulsion will drive us and destroy others.  Maybe we just can’t help it.

My friends who have seen more of Clair Denis will tell me that these films are different for  her.  Perhaps so, but this is a side of her that must be recognized.  The driven darkness of us all are explored and exposed and there is a time that we must look right in the mirror of cinema and confess, “That is me.”

Samsara

I. Beauty

After a few minutes, I began considering this "The Pinterest Movie". A collection of beautiful images, cobbled together without much organization intended to stir awe and wonder. On a huge screen, I could imagine some of these images causing jaw-dropping amazement, but on a laptop, it feels like I'm going through a Google Images search of "beautiful".

II. Deconstruction

After I had been put into a lull, an artistic performance stuns the viewer, helping us realize that we are not in the movie we once thought. No longer sleepy, I awake to a breakdown of the beauty presented in the first part of the film. Even though this middle section continues none of the images from the first, in a sense this set of images destroys the beauty seen in the first section, forcing us to forget, to almost negate the beauty originally presented.

III. Restoration

Through religion, the directors seem to be saying, we can restore the world to the beauty that creation was intended to display. This is the weakest set of the three, because although we see a semblance of the beauty, it is neither as stunning as the first or any kind of antidote to the second.

I love the progress the film goes through, but I think it is religiously naive, and starts too slowly. Still, for a non-narrative film, it has a clear message and a lot of depth, especially in the second section.

Searching for Sugar Man

Because of the existence of this film, I knew a few things about Sixto Rodriguez. That he had no real music career in the U.S., that he did have some popularity in Australia and did some tours there, that people compared him to Bob Dylan, and he was very popular in South Africa without him knowing it. That last part seemed strange because how could he not know that his albums were selling like hotcakes? I was concerned that the film would seem like a set up, like a lie by omission.

Not at all. What a surprise to get a documentary that not only told a great story, but was a feel-good movie. The secret of the film is to tell the story from the perspective of the South Africans and to keep Rodriguez himself somewhat a mystery. The fact that he remained a hard laborer throughout his life seems to say more about his character than his lack of popularity. He believes in hard work and in earning your own keep. But the film didn't really explore the man... they focused on the story.

And the story is wonderful. I can feel the excitement of them discovering that Rodriguez is alive and talking to him and seeing him for the first time. It is a story about research before the internet, and how the internet changed the speed with which we find things out tremendously. It is a story about how one nation might not be ready for a message, or the messenger, but another nation might. I smiled throughout the film because the narrative is so well done.

Blind

Ingrid has just become blind. She's too afraid to go out of her home, has a strained relationship with her husband and types on her computer all day. Her husband is gently nagging her to go to an event, to go outside sometimes. And he sometimes stays in the apartment, silent, to see what she's doing.

There are studies that show that people who are isolated torture themselves, and delve deeper into an increasingly unbalanced psyche. That fundamentally, to force someone to be in isolation, like in a prison or in a mental institution, only increases aberrant behavior and makes it more difficult for them to connect to others. As if the muscle of "getting along" weakens with lack of use, and that muscle is connected to "paranoid fantasy" which gains greater use. This film brilliantly illustrates this.

It is full of simple but mind-bending subjective scenes, filling us with questions until the end. But, like Jacob's Ladder, once we are given the answer, there is no need to question or to consider the film anymore. So while it is satisfying while watching, I wish there was even more to chew on.