The Insane Delight of Bronson.

Madness, chaos, rage, insanity swirl together in Nicolas Winding Refn’s film Bronson to create cacophony of nihilistic delight. Watching Tom Hardy as the stolid and unpredictable Charlie Bronson, I cannot help myself but stare, my mouth gaping in an hypnotic daze. This is the second time I’ve seen this film and none of its nuances have diminished in the slightest. hypnotic is really the key word here, the film seems to lull you into a slow, baroque craziness that grows in intensity as the film develops. There is something indescribably beautifully in the mise en scene in this film: a series of portraits, displayed in a dialectical montage to establish an almost classical sense of convention, surrealism bubbling just under the surface of every wide eyed grin and every punch.

Refn is a director who knows how to let his shots breath so to speak. Like aging a good piece of meat or bottle of wine, the images, even when lacking motion, speak for themselves. The composition of the figures on frame, the length of the each shot creates a perfect impression on the brain, the images become memorable. You may be sitting at your desk or in your car or wherever, when suddenly you will see one of these images dancing in your mind. You may forgot where it was from, it may be totally out of context but it’s there. The film does this not by being abundantly strange like say Holy Mountain or Eraserhead, but with the simplicity and beauty in which each shot represents. The constantly oscillating rhythm of the film add to this haunting quality as well, switching from fast-paced montage to long mobile takes, the feeling is maniac, by-polar and by all accounts quite unstable. But how pleasurable this insanity is! How perfectly it flows with Charlie’s unstable unpredictable mind!

Continuing Refn’s theme of loving the eighties, the soundtrack is very....well eighties. But not singularly so, the film also has a strong classical background, as well as a kick ass sequence which features lip synching, a soul son and footage of the actual Charlie Bronson starting a prison riot all by himself. The sound in general is spectacular in this film, the opening song is slowed down slightly giving the already expressively light sequence a uneasiness about it, a great introduction to the mad boxer.

The film is one that works on a premises of isolation, more specially, social isolation. Most films about a criminal focus on the semantic elements of their lives: where they grew up, were they rich or poor, bullied or bullies, loved or unloved, angry or calm etc. This is done in an attempt to explain or at least justify the latter actions of the criminal. So when Mesrine begins his legacy of crime and flirtations with revolutionary violence we can say it was due to his troubled relationship with his father or it was a product of the general social upheaval of the time etc. This simply does not occur in Bronson. Instead, the film takes a total subjective stance: we see and hear through Bronson’s ears and eyes alone. The two first acts of the film are in a way, Bronson’s side of the story, as he addresses the captive audience in his mind telling us step by step what he was thinking feeling. This internal monologue (visualized literally by an audience sitting before Bronson on stage) is strong at the beginning of the film wanes a bit for a simple thematic reason: The basic paradox of Bronson’s character is brought to a breaking point. Throughout the film, Bronson says over and over again that he always wanted to be famous, and that he can’t sing can’t act so might as well be England’s most violent prisoner. This label changes throughout the film from most violent, to most expensive and finally resting on most famous. Later on in the film, for various reasons, an opportunity arises for Bronson to garner celebrity beyond just being a badass with a mustache, and he turns it down. The question is this: is Charlie looking for fame or violence? Is his lust for fame just an excuse to violence or vise-versa. When given the choice, Bronson chooses violence and in one of the better scenes of the film, in his internal monologue, he turns away from the audience looks down and walks away. There is nothing left for him to explain.

It would easy to pin some sort of half assed bland thematic statement to Bronson, like “it’s a critique of society’s infatuation with fame” but this I think would render the film a great disservice. Refn’s work is not a that simple, as Bronson does not have hordes of adoring fans and in fact the film is so focused on him that we have hardly any indication of anything else. Throughout the film, we rarely see other prisoners and never see Bronson in gen pop. This film is a character portray of a violent man. As such, it cannot be so easily pigeon holed as some sort of Oliver Stone morality tale. The film, like Bronson himself, is a contradiction. A contradiction I enjoy every time I see it.

Super (2010) Ultimately Disappointing.

Directed and written by James Gunn.

If a genre is popular, it’s a fair bet to say that a parody is on the way. Superhero films are no exception, displayed most famously by the film Kickass. Super has a similar premise: an ordinary man is fed up with the world dumping shit on him and decides to fight “evil” like so many superheroes. Only, Frank, the main character of the film, thinks that God’s finger has touched his brain and told him to do the right thing. He then makes a costume, grabs a monkey wrench and fights crime under the name of the crimson bolt. The plot is a bit more complex than that, but I think the formula is popular enough for most to get the picture.

Except that picture won’t serve you that well, seeing as the film isn’t exactly clear cut about the way it deals with amateur vigilantism. See, what films like Kickass or even Eagle vs. Shark do is make violence impotent, either by means of exaggeration or a kind of blown up satirization. Super does neither. Its violence is raw, shocking and some what real. When Frank splits someone’s head open for budding in line, I was actually taken a back at how gruesome the scene was. As Stuart Hall and others have pointed out, images of violence in films and television isn’t violence, they are messages about violence. So, what is Super telling us?

Well, the film makes it rather difficult to say for sure due to its stylistic inconsistencies. The first act lays itself out as a rather dark comedy (what is comedy, after all, without a bit of tragedy? A Judd Appatow film), displaying Frank has a rather pathetic man who got dealt a shitty hand in life. Clearly, the movie wants us to both sympathize and identify with Frank, as a sort of every man. The beginning of the film even features an animated music video, complete with all the characters dancing around together, very light hearted to say the least. Then nearing the end of the first act, birthing the second, we are treated with a bizarre vision of Frank’s brain being exposed by tentacles that come from the wall and God touching his brain. We find out that Frank has had visions and hallucination all his life, usually taking on religious contexts. Well, alright, so we learn that he sees things, doesn’t make him a bad guy now does it? What’s a second half for if not a good surprise?

Things get...interesting to say the least in the second and third act. First of all, Frank treats every crime the same. From drug dealer, molestation to cutting in line, you get a vicious beat down with his monkey wrench either way. It’s brutal, I mean you could easily kill a guy with a wrench. The religious overtones of the films would hint at some sort of critique of judo-Christian morality, at one point Frank screams in the face of a man he’s about to stab to death “there are rules, and they never change!” He even drops a cinder block on someone who buys drugs. This is all treated in a montage music video like way. Alright, so the twist is that this superhero is just a crazy guy running around viciously assaulting people, therefore constituting a sort of critique of an objective morality system. But the ending...after the crimson bolt and his side kick (played by the surprisingly interesting Ellen Page) go on a killing rampage at a criminal’s compound in which the side kick dies, seems to say well at least he saved a girl and she got a life. Suddenly, the ending is serious, now it seems that the end justified the means because he helped his ex-wife get back on the path to sobriety. Bolty (Page) died for nothing, the guy who cut in line and got his skull split open had nothing to do with his wife.

It’s all very confusing. The film is too final to suggest an ending that wants people to discuss. The entirety of the film wants us to fee some sort of catharsis stemming from his rampage, yet it seems hollow to me. Perhaps I’m sensitive, maybe the violence is all in good fun, but it seems real enough, certainly the consequences of Frank’s actions were real. So what’s the point? What’s the message? Is it reaffirming morality or opposing it? Somewhere in between? I don’t know, and frankly I’m beginning to believe that the film doesn’t know either. James Gunn just made a film with a bunch of stuff that feels meaningful, hoping that somehow it would all just come together. It didn’t. Last but not least, the film has TWO rape scenes in it! TWO! One is a female raping a male, (Ellen Page rapes Frank) which is pointless and feels gratuitous. It’s as if Gunn reached the end of his script and thought, fuck there’s no sex in this! I’ll just add a quick male rape scene in there and it should be good. The other is in context, but is way to heavy for the film’s tone.

Watching super has been a tremendously disappointing experience. The trailers convinced me it would be funny, more importantly, darkly funny. But it wasn’t. It simple became confusing and ultimately awkward to watch. And looking at Gun’s track record (mediocre television comedies) this isn’t exactly surprising. Watch it if you want, maybe I’m wrong. Please explain to me why I am, because I just can’t see the point of this picture.

The Sacred in the Profane: Derek Jarman's Carvaggio (1986)

Possibly England’s most important queer filmmaker, Derek Jarman’s Carvaggio is considered one of his most pronounced works. A re-telling of the story of the Renaissance painter Carvaggio in a industrial post-modern environment full of anachronisms, with heavy doses of camp to boot. The re-telling the painter’s story as a queer artist struggling with himself and work is somewhat parallel the real life of Italian director Passolini who was murdered, an idol of Jarman’s. The film is extremely subversive, not just because it posits Carvaggio as a queer artist, but pretty much every male character in the film is either fabulously queer or at least bi-sexual. Even the pope himself, one of the notorious Borgias, speaks with a lisp and flirts with everyone in the court. The effect is a bizarre retrospective, a look back with modern eyes so to speak, one that isn’t only well told, but full of inner pathos and poetic visual beauty.
But one of the most subversive elements of the film is the structure of the text itself. Renaissance culture is an important pillar in western civilization, used as a benchmark to measure all other achievements. It was seen as a time of not only great learning, but of great art, great people etc. The Renaissance represents the now muted arrogance and quiet belief in the cultural superiority of Europe. Jarman’s revisions of this era dresses up this pivotal era as a decadent one, a decaying one, a hypocritical and repressed one. These transgressions both in gender, time and space are far from being playful for their own sake, but constitute a form of resistance to the cultural legacy of this mono-history. Jarman’s detournement of classical history mirrors a recurring theme or motif in Carravagio’s paintings, that of the profane within the sacred. Fruit and other foods rot on the table as holy figures feast, the look of fear and regret on certain heroes faces betrays their supposed noble intentions, and the use of sex workers and street people as models for Christ, the Virgin and Saints all make their way into Carravagio’s paintings. These little profanities did not go unnoticed in their own time, and his paintings caused quite the controversy. It is this aspect of subversion, that of supplanting profane or visceral elements within a work that is supposed to exclaim sanctity and holiness, which follows so closely the structure of Jarman’s film. So although the rough exterior of the film (and I do mean rough, the film is very minimalist in that it uses stages with jet black backdrops, with characters often occupying space as would figures in a painting, echoing Carravagio’s techniques in his works.) plays the part: People are dressed like they would in the Renaissance period, religion is clearly important to people etc. But the subversions and transgressions, although clearly tuned down in the first part of the film, come glaring through (quite unlike Carravagio’s paintings) quite strongly very quickly. The obvious queerness of most if not all characters, the anachronisms both in dress, language, setting, music technologies etc all form a hyper stylized queer revision of the past.

An anarchist reading of the film presents it in yet another light. Culture and history are manufactured as consumable commodities in what Adorno and Horkheimer called the “culture industry”. And although this idea is very complex and covers large amounts of areas, I want to concentrate on one particular one: that of the creation of a standardized history. States and civilizations are always based on a series of myths, which can be completely fictional or based on real people. Rome had Romulus, America has George Washington etc. Some myths or mythological figures transcendent individual nation-states to become trans-national myths, encompassing the entirety of western civilization. Carravagio is one of these figures, although admittedly only in intellectual circles (by that I mean, he isn’t a popular figure like say Robin Hood, Jesse James or Benjamin Franklin). By defacing the standardized version of Carravagio’s life and his work, Jarman subverts this standardized history, to create a rupture in the narrative of western civilization. It isn’t polemical, it isn’t ragging against civilization in an overt way, advocating the total destruction of all networks of dominance. It more like an individual (in this case Jarman’s) defacement of something sacred, a form of historical graffiti. Within the confines of western civilization itself, he scribbles a message of queerness, of historical chaos, of corruption and decadence. Anarchist can be seem to occupy a similar role in society as a whole. As an individual, the anarchist’s existence is the corrupting influence on civilization, throwing sand in the engine, rotting the structure from the inside. We infiltrate every sector of society, science, the academia, the workplace, the school, the military, the church etc. We plunder bits and parts which are useful to us, either skills or inspiration, and we slowly rot and corrupt the rest. Jarman’s film can be seem in a similar light, as a pillaging of standardized historical narratives in order to create new, personalized narratives. No necessarily counter-narratives, not exactly a critique, but something similar, something closer to that of a refusal. Anarchists and other subversives can find much joy in films like Carravagio for it shows that although Empires seems omnipresent, it is not immortal. We are the rot eating away at the mansion.

When our Nightmares Come to us: The Hour of the Wolf

1968, Directed and written by Ingmar Bergman. Swedish with english subtitles.

“The time when most people die, and most people are born”

Whenever someone writes something, creates something either on the page on the canvas, it is a reflection of themselves, of what they think they are, what they hope they are, and what they fear they are. As Albert Camus said, “every work of art is a confession” . The question that Bergman’s film asks is, what kind of confession is that? And how “real” can those confessions become.

The film starts with a direct address to the camera, as if we were having a conversation with Alma, the wife of a painter who’s disappeared. It is implied that she is the one retelling the story. Johan, the artist, is an insomniac who is having trouble, a case of painter’s bloc I presume. One angry night, he begins to show Alma a series of sketches or something of particularly disturbing figures, however we never see them. We can only guess what they looked like by the shocked look on Alma’s faces, as he angrily flips to another page. These sketches and the figures in them, begin to seep into the reality of both Alma and Johan’s lives, as they are visited by them. Slowly, Johan’s former obsession with another women drive him to the brink of insanity.

Art is literally a confession in this film, as one of the visitors tells Alma to read Johan’s diary, which acts as a window into just how disturbed his mind is. Art is a major theme in this film, both on the nature of the creation, the role of the artist and the psychology of creativity. This idea of an artist’s creation coming to life isn’t new. It seems to be a common fear or idea, Stephen King does it, Stranger than Fiction is all about it, Woody Allen does it more than once etc. Is creativity just a form of schizophrenia? To blur the line between unreal and real, to create something unreal drawn from the real seems to have at least some affinity with madness. This film makes this all too clear, as his creations, as vile as they are, know everything about him, art becomes like shards of him, reflections from a broken mirror. Johan refers to them as Cannibals. They never eat human flesh on screen, they feed off of him, they devour his mind, his soul. They even mock him, as Johan gives a sort of mini speech in which he declares that although megalomania has “licked his forehead” he is immune to it. To this, the Cannibals give him a round of applause, praising him which he takes in strides. The irony of this scene is not only blatantly obvious, but eerie, as if they knew he would not be able to resist this sort of flattery.

The film is straight up European art cinema, which isn’t surprising if you are familiar with Bergman’s work. If you’re new to the art cinema, this isn’t the film to start with. Although it is not totally without a plot, it will be confusing. Mainstream films, especially today, are very topical, they are about something and we are going to watch this unfold and learn about whatever that something is. Of course, this film is about something, but what that is, isn’t clear, and is left to be pried out and digested by the viewer. The best way to enjoy this film and others like it, is to try not to rationalize every image and line in the film. Instead, absorb the images, let them sink, let them invoke emotions. Then later, think about it, let it sit in your mind and cook there for a bit, dream on it as it were. This films are not meant to be chewed and spat out, but discussed, pondered and examined.

Visual, this film is a real gem. It alternates between darkly shadows that eay away at the corners of the screen and at the character’s faces. And when Johan “confesses”, the film is overexposed, making the film almost uncomfortably bright, as if a long repressed truth is now being brought into the light, squinting. The imagery has un-stable quality to it, jumps not only in the pace of the film but also in terms of overall mood make this film unpredictable. Situations become increasingly more and more nightmarish, as Johan crosses the border into insanity. Compared to say Seventh Seal, the film is a lot more visual shocking, with creepy make-up and camera tricks. What really steals the show is the sound. Sound is de-familiarized, meaning it’s only slightly altered to give it an unreal tinge to it. At particular intense moments, the dialogue cuts up, giving way to sometimes incredibly tense and edgy music, a rhythmic sound which makes you sit at the edge of your seat (I know this is a clique, but by God it’s true!).

If you’re a fan of Bergman’s work, then this is a must see. If you like art films, then again you got to see this thing. If you’re that special kind of horror fan (you know you are) who likes stuff like Eraserhead, give this a whirl.

The Anarchist and Film.

Who is the anarchist viewer? What do they see? How do the flickering images of the cinema effect their emotions, they psyche, their bodies? The cinema like all forms of popular media, projects and utilizes dominant moral codes to govern its plot. Good soldiers, bad terrorists, cops good, crooks bad etc. Even slight variations on these themes stick to the same moral recipes, bad cops are only bad because our expectations of them as civil servants are defeated, corrupt governments seen as ugly possibilities, exceptions rather than the rules. The anarchist is one who rejects all forms of domination from a state, from ideology (religion would fall under this category) all forms of social control be it direct (governments, police, colonialism etc.) or indirect (gender binaries, racial and other identity constructs). The anarchists in the world of cinema often finds themselves rooting for the bad guy, identifying with villains and antagonists and laughing when the rest of the theater is crying.

The anarchist has no film theory, no movement in cinema that he can cling to. Surrealism surely has anarchistic elements (rejection of dominance of rationality over the irrational, the real over the dream, the mental over the emotional and the tyranny of plot and narrative), and many surrealists were also anarchists, but it is no comparable to say communism to Socialist Realism and Soviet Montage or fascism to some forms of expressionism. Is such a theory possible, when all those couples rely on ideological relationships, when anarchism rejects ideology so completely. Is there an anarchist cinema? What about an anarchist analysis of film? I propose the latter, without rejecting the former.
The practice of filmmaking isn’t a political action in its own right. To make a film isn’t necessarily to make a statement, although it certainly carries that potential. This is different from anarchist practice and theory, which form a symbiotic relationship, one without the other becomes meaningless. Without getting into a chicken and egg argument, it can be safely said that anarchist theory and practice are both vital to any sort of anarchist philosophy, anarchism can thusly be better defined as a praxis, a philosophy that reaches beyond abstraction without becoming a social/political ideology. How then, is a praxis related to a reading of a film? How does the anarchist viewer judge a film, based on what merits, on what qualities? The following essay is an attempt to spell out some of these qualities.

Power relations present in the film. This has three parts to it (as most of these qualities do) Content, meaning the power relations that govern the actions within the narrative or film, characters environment, machines etc. Form, meaning the power relations between the viewer and the film, how the film treats its on artificiality and any commentary on the relationship of viewer-spectatorship. And finally context, meaning viewing the film as a product and how it exists in the spectacle, how it is marketed, how it is consumed etc. These aspects by themselves are not new, as many other critics and groups have judged films based on similar criterion (gender analysis for example, is both present here and in feminist theorists of film, ditto for queer theory). The difference lies in the critic’s, in this cause an anarchist, attitude towards power itself, namely one of total opposition and hostility to existent power structures. If an anarchist seeks power relations, both in film and anywhere else, it is so they can be destroyed. This combative stance towards power in general places the anarchist in a unique position to read films. The last aspects, context, cannot be stressed enough. No film exists in a vacuum, and long have critics erred in his area of criticism. For example, to look at D.W Griffith’s Birth of a Nation and to say “despite the racism of the film, (the film ends with the KKK saving a white women from the clutches of a black union soldier, the actor is white played in black-face) the film is an eloquent example of continuity editing” is a) not very original and b) besides the point. It is equally redundant however, for an anarchist to simply point out the obvious racism of the film and walk away content. Issues of nation myth-making, the making or cementing of the concept of whiteness in America etc. All these are more interesting aspects of the film, and useful to anarchists who wish to destroy these very realities.

2. Thematic attitudes towards freedom/authority and related concepts. Although on first glance, this aspects seems to be confided solely to the realm of content, as themes are often related most obviously in the diegesis of the film. However, the form of the film may also reflect thematic considerations (how it is edited, the music, who what and how something is framed etc.) and should not be discarded. Because of the sheer diversity of thought within the giant multi-colored umbrella that is anarchism, this section may change from person to person. For example, it is my opinion that society and government and separate and in fact, engage in a non-dialectical conflict. The tension lies in that the state needs a society, while society does not. Through the lens of this tension, I perceive a film’s themes about society and state with a specific view already, I judge it past on that criteria. If one were more at home with a different analysis or perspective, say nihilism or primitivism, one would look at different reflections of freedom and authority, manifest in say the enforcement of a moral code or the role of technology in the film. These considerations are very close to the first point, but the questions are more ontological than simply observing existing power relations in the film. What is the film’s explanation of freedom (where does it come from)? Of authority? Natural? Forced? What is resistance and how is it framed? What is there to resist (in the film)?

Acknowledging subjectivities, reflection upon the effects of the film on the subject (the critic) and analyzing those effects. This third point is probably the most important aspect of this approach so far. One of the biggest problem of the critic is the cult of objectivity, the idea that the critic’s opinion is akin to some sort of scientific empirical fact. All great films have their hates, and all terrible films have their fans. The first first of this endeavor is to out yourself as a critic in relation to the film. For example, if I were writing something on a film dealing with rape or sexual abuse as a thematic element, I’d have to mention that I am a male socialized and bodied individual with no history of sexual assault. This is not irrelevant, what’s surprising is that most modern critics often act as it if it were. A film’s meaning can only be understood or actualized when it is viewed, when someone is watching. So, depending on who is watching, with all their experiences and subjectivities, that film has multiple meanings regardless of what the film maker’s intend was. Using the example above, the film that I am viewing would not trigger me (there is nothing to trigger), and so the film’s meaning is considerably different to me than say a female bodied person who has a history of sexual abuse. The difference, and the subjectivity associated with that difference must be outed and named, in order to better understand and analysis both the films meaning and an anarchistic perspective on it. The second part of this aspects of understanding that a film that may be terribly exciting or inspiring for one person may be boring and depressing for another. This, again, may seem obvious but its the subtext that is important here. What this means is, that no knowledge of formal film criticism or theory is needed to write an anarchist critic of a film is needed. Because it is not reliant on structuralist or other philosophical concepts such as Bare Life and Biopolitics and only on an individual’s subjectivities, anyone can do it. For example, as stated before I am a film student enrolled at a University studying film. Clearly, even in my more laid back writings such as this blog, I’m going to use somewhat of a formal tone of writing and a fair bit of jargon. But the three points stated above do not necessitate that. This is important because anarchists reject the use of specialists, and a film critic is just that. Any theory or system of anarchist film analysis must then be a non-specialist one. Here is an example, I’ll do a small paragraph explaining why I liked the film Mesrine: L’instinct de Mort using the three points:
Although the content of the film is thoroughly standard (never breaks the fourth wall etc.) the film still establishes a complex series of power relations between the characters. Mesrine, although seeing himself as a rebel against authority, defends his own power over women violently, which showing the vulnerability of his character to sexual frustration and shame. What is interesting is that the film explicitly posits Mesrine as a rebel both outside/against the state AND outside/against society, while noting that indeed there is much to destroy and fight against in both these arenas. As a male bodied person, watching the abuse scenes (Mesrine physically abuses at least two of his female partners in the film) make me uncomfortable. Obviously because the scenes are framed as uncomfortable and disturbing, but also because I’m wishing and wanting Mesrine to resist and fight against patriarchy and his given identity with as much vigor as he does against prisons.

All three points where used in this small paragraph. Now, the same film without all the jargon and formalities (from someone who liked the movie.
Mesrine is pretty fierce, and clearly doesn’t like to be bossed around. It’s kinda funny how easily he goes around bossing others thought, especially the women in the movie. The movie doesn’t make you feel bad for the banks or the cops, and you end up feeling closer to the “bad” guys in the movie (Mesrine and friends) more than the “good” guys. The scenes where he attacks prisons and cops is really inspiring, as few movies show this events from the bad guy’s point of view only. What sucks about the movie is that he seems to be totally unable to realize that how fucked it is to point a gun at a women you supposedly love to make him agree with you. He would be a total rebel if it wasn’t for this oppressive shit.

Granted, it sounds a little hypocritical of me to try to pretend that I am not a middle class university student, but I feel the point is clarified by the example. Both paragraphs use the three points, the only difference is in style and language and choose of examples. The only objective facts of a film is the raw data of the film I.E if the line was said or not. This scene happened, that is true, we both saw it. But how we saw it differs greatly.

This format that I have now outlined is going to be how I write analysis of film from now on in this blog. This isn’t “mine” and if you read this blog you should use it to (if you want). This is just an attempt, it may have holes and inconsistencies, if so feel free to email me at anarchobeardface@riseup.net

Going to the Movies Alone.

Going to the Movies alone.

Film in our society is not simply projected art upon a screen, that much is obvious. Much has been said about the meaning or value of art as a social medium, the idea that film is so much more than simple entertainment. These, however interesting they are, are not what I choose to focus on. Going to the movies is a particular social ritual preformed by people in our society. You, a date, a friend, your parents, sit and look despondently at each other.
What do you want to do?
I dunno, how about you?
I don’t care, anything.
Thus, the most passive activity available to most social classes is chosen. Let’s go see a movie. So, you and company, they, whoever grabs their things and set out to watch a movie, to have something to talk about.

The key word here is “we”, the activity is a plural one. I am aware that I am speaking specifically to North American society, and about a mainstream attitude within that populace. So, if you have happened to be a french film student, this ramble may seem like a simple oddity. A poorly written one at that.

Lo to the one who goes to a movie alone. It seems to be written in blood somewhere in North America that such a thing is considered blasphemy against decency. The punishment? Surprised, almost offended looks that say either two things: What has this person done to be ostracized so? Can no know how stand his presence long enough to make it through on measly film? Or, pity that poor man has been stood up. What does this mean? And more importantly why such heavy stigma?

It’s a difficult thing to explain, like most social taboos and norms, they are so ingrained that one rarely confronts them. I am no expert, I have no degree in social control or psychology has it’s called in less honest circles. I am a humble cinenophile, who happens to enjoy watching films, and sometimes going alone is an inevitability. How to proceed then? I propose that instead of speaking in generalities, I’ll speak from a personal point of view, talk through the lead up to the first time I went to a film alone.

The year was 2010, April, the Calgary Underground FIlm Festival. For any lovers of film out there, who get terribly annoyed at the constant efforts of the more mainstream Calgary International film festival to appear like some sort of New York art gallery, Champagne commercials with Scarlet Johansen and all, the underground fest is refreshing. Anyways, I find myself with a pass with five admissions on it, I thought well this is an uneven number, I’ll only be able to “bring” someone, in the financial sense, for the first two. The last film will have to be experienced alone by me. It took all of about 30 seconds to get comfortable with the idea. No problem I thought, people do that all the time.

The first film I wanted to see approaches, the Disappearance of Alice Creed, so I ask the usual people if they wanted to go. An avalanche of No’s ensues. Desperate, I posted on my now dead Facebook page: If anyone wants to see a free movie (I linked information about the film) meet me at the theater. Nothing. No responses.

I remember approaching the plaza thinking, this is it, I’m about to watch a movie by myself. I knew it was real when I walked into the theater, and the lady at the admission box asked, with an odd kind of smile:
“Just one?”
“Just one” I repeated, with the severity of a monk completing some sort of epic pilgrimage. She nods a bit, and tears me a ticket.

And I walk into the darkness.

I am habitual early for films, I’m terrified of being late. I think somewhere in my mind there is a fear that the film maker will be in the theater, see me come in late, stand up and shout “this man has no respect for film” and challenge me to a dual. Anyways, the theater is near empty, so I pick a seat as close to the center as possible. As I take my sit, I remember thinking to myself “Well, this isn’t so bad”. As people started to fill the place, that situation changed. The most startling thing was watching people who were at one moment laughing and smiling, and the instant their gaze fell to me their faces grew concerned or almost afraid of that man sitting a theater alone.

The worst part is not the stares however, it’s what happenings as the theaters becomes more and more full. This is an aspect of watching films alone is often overlooked, which is understandable. You see, rows of seats are usually odd numbers, and most people watch movies in pairs at least. Usually, if the film being played is brand spanking new or extremely popular, people find ways to fill every seat in the house. But usually, there are a few vacant ones left as buffer zones between couples and groups. In an ideal world, people sitting by themselves like this humble writer, would be seated in these seats. However, this is hardly fair to those like me who arrive shockingly early. So what happens is, your often sitting beside one empty seat, and as the later people starting filling the space, they look at you sitting there and think, that would be a great spot, if that one guy wasn’t using it. Because, unless another loner comes in, that spot is pretty much yours.

I can think of a few different sociological, or maybe even philosophical explanations as to why this is. It could be that our society has created a stigma to people who are alone in public spaces because of a general fear of being alone, a fear of facing ourselves. Are we so unsure our own emotions, of our own thoughts that we have to verify them by bouncing them off someone else, to see if they are shared, so that they conform? Or is just so that theater companies can make more money off of admission tickets and popcorn? I don’t know, but frankly it’s fucking annoying. If I look at a painting or even go to a concert by myself one isn’t as nowhere as shunned as when you dare see a movie by yourself. Until some one comes up with a rational reason as to why one has to be with someone else to watch a film, I will continue to venture to cinema alone, regardless of the mean stares and awkward looks.

The Ghost Writer (2010)

Director: Roman Polanski

Writers: Robert Harris, Roman Polanski

Based on the novel by Robert Harris.



I have to say this right up front, I'm not a Polanski fan. Apart from a few gems, I don't get his style. It doesn't hurt that he's a jerk that sexual abuses underage women then runs to Europe to avoid what most said would be a slap on the wrist at best. And then, making a documentary about himself defending his actions, his entire case basically amounts to "I'm Roman Polanski". So, it's safe to say that I'm not a "Free Polanski" type to say the least. That being said, I do not advocate in anyway the boycott or banning of any of his films. Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to the nitty gritty.

The Ghost Writer is about a writer, who becomes the ghost writer (the character is never actually named) for the memoirs of Adam Lang ex-prime minister of England and war criminal. As the ghost does more and more research into Mr. Lang, he unveils a secret CIA plot involving Mr. Lang and the United States government. It's a political thriller, although told through the eyes of a almost annoyingly apolitical character. The film mainly takes place in Massachusetts, though in reality was filmed on a German island because Polanski can't go the states. Although some plot elements are fairly obvious, some are genuinely surprising moments, keeping it from becoming a dull experience. That being said, it plot is a bit of a fuck you to Tony Blair. It all amounts to a liberal conspiracy theory: A prime minister put in power by the CIA to serve the united states. First of all, it's debatable whether or not England has that high of a strategic value for the United States to warrant such action, secondly it's all a bit kitsch. Some bits of the plot just feel like a desperate attempt to reach the same grandeur of say JFK, but not quite getting there. The plot isn't bad, it isn't captivating either, but good compared to your averge film these days.

Taking place on an island that seems to be perpetually gray and dull, the film does have it's visual moments. The framing is warmly balanced, and the camera behaves shyly. With a clever script that actually produces some quality lines, the dialogue never feels hammy or do James Bond like. Although the actual plot is a bit over the top, the dialogue itself never reaches this state, with characters behaving realistically. One scene in particular displays how Polanski doesn't reduce Ghost Writer to a Bourne or Bond film. The car chase scene is one of the most unique car chases I've ever seen specifically because it seems plausible, meaning that it doesn't resort to cars flipping over giant cliff to explode for some reason.

The music deserves special mention here though, as it fits the creeping, mysterious ambiance of the film perfectly. Never to dramatic or subtle, the music rides the fence between campy and useless. The Ghost writer himself is legitimately a likable character, and we honestly feel sorry for him as he gets sucked more and more into the conspiracy. The ghost says at the very beginning that he is not interested in politics, and the only reason he seems to have for his investigations is to discover the true cause of his predecessor's death, which makes him a more likable rather than a spiteful character. It's worth noting that Polanski edited this film while in prison, without a delay in the post-production. Say what you will of this man, but that is dedication. Adam Lang's character is also done well. The man is supposed to be a political puppet, sort of an upper class version of George W. Bush. You know, a guy you could really just drink a Chery with. A jock who has massive appeal with the public, but seems to be a total air head when it comes to politics, the audience shares the Ghost's confusion on how this man had become so popular.

Although it isn't nearly as good as Polanski's other stuff, notably the Pianist, The Ghost Writer isn't to be written off. Despite a slightly ridiculous plot, it actually is quite entertaining. If you're in the mood for a good old fashion political thriller, give the Ghost Writer a shot.