MYST #4: Do The Right Thing

After seeing clips of the film in class, I wanted to watch Do the Right Thing in full.

It is very evident that aesthetics play a huge part in enhancing the strain between characters of opposing races, therefore enhancing the message of the film in general. Dutch angles, tight close-ups, high angles, low angles, and parallelism are all features throughout Do the Right Thing. Severe camera angles made their way into a majority of the scenes, and were often utilized to establish a sense of hierarchy in one character over another, whether it be through the color of their skin or a decision they choose to make. This is evident when a biker, who had been followed and harassed by Buggin' Out and his friends, was shot at a lower angle as he chose to ignore their jabs and to enter his apartment without causing unnecessary ruckus. Contrasting, the entourage is shot from a higher angle to reflect the childish manner of their words and actions as they continue to needlessly bother the innocent passerby. A memorable dutch angle took place between Mother Sister and Da Mayor — not only did it emphasize the power differential Mother Sister believed was present between the two characters, but enhanced the disorientation as a result of Da Mayor's intoxication. Music is also very important throughout the film, not only adding to the significance of the events taking place within the film but individual characters as well. "Fight The Power", frequently played from Radio Raheem's boom box, is about the empowerment and sometimes frustrations surrounding black Americans. Often played when Radio Raheem was on camera, it emphasized the intimidation and strength surrounding his character. This song actually caused some conflict within my own mind by the end of the film; I felt that there may have been another reason behind the song choice. On the one hand, the song is one of empowerment — the idea of fighting authority, fighting those who are trying to oppress who people are and how they chose to think and act. As I thought more about it, though, that is making the idea of power out to be bad, because it is being applied to those which may be suppressing others. Yet, power is synonymous with potential and capability, characteristics that are essential to unity and progress. So, by having "Fight the Power" play throughout the film, it may be reflecting the idea that these many different races were constantly fueling (and fooling) themselves with the idea that distancing and fighting against difference is beneficial, while in fact that is what leads to the community's inability to integrate effectively.

One of my favorite parts of the film was the "racial rants" scene. I think what caught my eye was the comical way in which very real issues were presented. The monologues were overstated and drawn out, the close-ups were unusually tight, and the acting itself was not credible. The scene featured so much diversity, yet each representative individual of this diverse group was caught up in their desire for monoculture. The way that each of these characters is shot individually, yet the frames are cut so closely, creates an ironic blend of each character. Very cool scene.


I really had a lot of questions, both big and small, at the close of the film. Why did Mookie's character, one that was so central to providing some connection between people,  never appear to be well-developed or willing to take on responsibility? He seemed to be one of the few rational people within the neighborhood, yet never realized the necessity of properly caring for his own son. Why was Vito more actively accepting of others, while his brother was not? If Mother Sister and Da Mayor were portrayed to be the "parents" of the community, why were they so flawed? What was the point of Samuel L. Jackson's character's repetition of the phrase "That's the truth, Ruth" (which also changed as the movie progressed…"that's the truth…that's the double truth…that's the triple truth, that's the quintessential truth, Ruth"). I have a feeling a lot of these questions have multiple answers, all of which may or may not be valid, but the sense of incompleteness at the end of the film seems to reflect the fact that racial tensions had been far from resolved.

Formal Film Study: Foreign Animated Films

 

  

I chose to watch My Neighbor Totoro, Ernest and Celestine, and The Secret of Kells. Foreign animated film is not a subsection I have much experience with; my goal in reviewing these three was to expand my appreciation of the different approaches to filmmaking.

 My Neighbor Totoro takes place in Japan, focusing on the story of a university professor (Tatsuo Kusakabe) and his two daughters (Satsuki and Mei). In order to be closer to his ill wife, who is recovering in a hospital, Kusakabe relocates himself and his daughters to a home near the hospital. As Kusakabe busies himself with breaking in the new home and caring for his wife, the two girls find themselves exploring the more mystical aspects of the new environment. After much exploration, Mei discovers one of the many "spirits" below a nearby camphor tree known as Totoro. Despite her best attempts to explain and reveal Totoro to her family, it's to no avail. In time, a connection grows between Mei and Totoro as the two exchange varying forms of assistance to one another — Mei provided Totoro shelter from the rain, and in return he located her wandering sister. As the story wraps up, Mei and Satsuki's mother returns home, healthy, the two sisters find other children to befriend, and Totoro becomes an unseen observer. 

Two aspects of the film grabbed my attention — the visual discrepancies between characters and their surroundings, and the possible interpretations of Totoro's character. Throughout the film there is an obvious hyper expressive nature to both the humans and the spirits they come in contact with —large, disproportionate facial features, unnaturally exaggerated reactions. Simultaneously, there is an obvious sense of realism embodying the characters' surroundings. The sound of raindrops hitting an umbrella are subtle, sunlight streams through each leaf on a tree as it would in reality, clouds shift their shape and size in accordance to the weather. The auditory aspects of nature are blended within the film in a natural way as well — wind and music and chirping crickets are continually placed quietly behind dialogue. The second aspect of the film surrounds the meaning and purpose of Totoro. My initial desire to further this exploration of Totoro was sparked by the overwhelming eerie vibe he gave off, despite the fact that he was supposed to be this helpful, magical spirit. His actions were undoubtedly friendly and nurturing, but his expressions made him seem so disconnected from those he assisted. As I looked around the web, it became clear that many came to a dark conclusion regarding Totoro: he is Death. What? Yeah, I know. One blog had a few pieces of evidence to back the claim that once a person sees Totoro, they will die. (Blog here, if you're interested: http://thealcave.blogspot.com/2009/07/totoro-is-angel-of-death-wait-wha.html) 

I don't really have a solid stance on what Totoro actually represents. He is undeniably unsettling, but off-putting characters seem to be fairly common within anime. 

 The next film I saw was Ernest and Celestine, a French-Belgian film about a split society in which bears live in the upper world and mice reside beneath them in the sewers. Despite their close proximity, the bears and mice loathe and fear each other. When Celestine, already doubtful of the evil nature of bears, comes in contact with Ernest, destitute and lonely, the two form an unlikely bond against the wishes of the society in which they live. Their ability to connect eventually leads to the society coming together as a whole, with mice and bears at peace with one another. 

Yeah, the storyline isn't exactly original, but I appreciated the film regardless. Stylistically, it seemed as though the film was a watercolor painting come to life. This, coupled with very subtle, pastel tones, allowed the picture to seem as though it was almost dripping across the screen. The intentional imperfections of the animation added a softened appearance to the scenes. I really appreciated this...overcompensation of visual ingenuity. The conventional message of tolerance and friendship needed an added layer of lyricism and charm that the visuals provided. 

Interesting side note. . .the criminal romanticism mirrored that of Bonnie and Clyde. . . it was cool to be able to make that connection.

     Finally, The Secret Of Kells. The film opens with Abbot Cellach, who is convincing his nephew, Brendan, to understand the importance of building a wall to keep the vikings out of the Abbey of Kells. However, Brendan's inclination toward adventure and desire to aid a "master illuminator" finish the Book of Iona brings him outside of the Kells' boundary. Though his Uncle continues to forbid his travel beyond the boundary, Brendan continues to defy those wishes. Through his exploration of the forest beyond he meets Aisling, a forest spirit. As Brendan is sent on more adventures to aid the illuminator in completing the Book, him and Aisling become inseparable. Nearing the end of the film, a viking raid leads Cellach to try and protect his people from the invasion. Brendan and the illuminator escape the carnage, but are confronted by the vikings and would have been killed if Aisling had not protected them. Years later, the two finally complete the Book of Iona. 

     Again, the visuals definitely had an other-worldly feel, but what stuck out to me about The Secret of Kells was that it really paid homage to Celtic culture. The Book of Kells (Book of Iona in the film) is actually an illuminated manuscript Gospel book located in Dublin. The film also draws upon Celtic mythology in a variety of ways — one of the adventures Brendan embarks upon includes confronting a god named Crom Cruach, which is a pre-Christian Irish diety. Also, the character of Ainsling was named after a poetic genre in which a poet is confronted by a dream or vision.

     Obviously, animations outdo other films because they have so much more leeway to create visually unique and appealing scenes, but this is not the overarching connection between the three that caught my attention. The connection between all three was the concept of over exaggeration in one form or another. My Neighbor Totoro contained over exaggerated facial expressions, Ernest and Celestine involved over exaggeration actions, and The Secret of Kells involved characters whose body and facial structures were over exaggerated. I already sort of explained the idea of these almost inhuman facial expressions within the first movie — one second a character's mouth is as small as the head of a pin, the next second it's wide open like a cavern. In Ernest and Celestine, the actions of the characters were magnified. Whether it be the elder mouse's continual pulling out and pushing back in of her two front teeth, the unrealistic strength that Ernest displayed when protecting Celestine, or the ability of the bear and mouse judge (Ernest and Celestine were put on trial near the end of the film when their friendship was discovered) to be completely unaware that their body is being engulfed in flames (you'll just have to see the film if you want that to make sense). In The Secret of Kells, the actual features of each character's body and face are incredibly unrealistic and almost absurd — from a man who is shaped exactly like a circle to a woman with a face like an arrow. I've tried to think of why this is a common theme, but I haven't really come to a great conclusion. Perhaps it is because there are some limitations in terms of conveying messages through subtleties within a character's expression when one is animating; with real actors, a slight dimpling of the forehead or twitch of a lip can provide the audience insight into that character's mind. With animation, this is much more difficult and time consuming. So, perhaps, the animators decide to fly completely to the other end of the spectrum to convey expressions and actions just as effectively, but in a more memorable manner? Not really sure. 

MYST post #3: Philomena

    Philomena tells of Philomena Lee's growing yearning to locate and re-connect with her son, Anthony, — one who had been given up for adoption years ago. This possibility becomes a reality through the introduction of Martin Sixsmith, previous government spokesperson and current journalist. His interest in Philomena's story — teen pregnancy intertwined with convent living  — allows the two of them an opportunity to travel from Ireland to America in search of her son. Though the trip reveals news of Anthony's early death from AIDS, it simultaneously provides Philomena with closure —  he never allowed his Irish roots to fade away, nor relinquish his life-long attempt to find Philomena.

    Complex cinematic techniques were not a prominent feature of this film — the simplicity and straightforwardness of the techniques mimicked the subtle air surrounding the film as a whole. This contrasts with Citizen Kane, where every scene seemed to have three possible interpretations until you took into account all of the camera angles and lighting and stage-setting and realized the number of interpretations exceeds a dozen. While I can understand that the viewer may feel it to be an over-kill, I appreciated the heavy use of cinematic techniques in Citizen Kane — it appeared to be a deliberate attempt to counterbalance Kane's inability to convey his own thoughts and emotions — all of the camera angles and shots were struggling to compensate for his ambiguity. For Philomena, the importance was both in the words being spoken, considering this was a dialogue-heavy film, and in facial expression — particularly the eyes. As a result, there were a lot of close-ups throughout the film (and centering of the character's face/body within the shot). Very plain, very blatant in its purpose: watch this person's face. This person's face will reveal a lot more about what they're thinking than they're ever going to admit. I also appreciated the static look of the movie — lots of moments where the audience is staring at a car winding down the road, or a woman sitting in her chair, or two people simply walking along. Nothing tricky.

There were a lot of scenes I could convince you were my favorite, but one in particular stood out because it evoked such an unpredictably authentic reaction from me. The two, Martin and Philomena, wait to board a plane back home due to the startling discovery of Anthony's death, thus putting a halt to Martin's human interest story and Philomena's hopes. As they sit, Martin pulls up a picture of Philomena's son standing with President Reagan — he was a senior official for the Reagan administration — to show her. Her delight abruptly shifts to dismay as she recognizes one of the cameramen in the picture to be Martin. Taking a closer look, he confirms his presence in the picture (before his job as a journalist he worked for the BBC). As a memory of that day begins to strengthen in Martin's mind, he recalls actually having met Anthony face-to-face. Sharing this news with Philomena, there is a shift in her whole way of being. She becomes unreservedly giddy — teeming with elation at the idea of being able to store even the slightest bit of this new knowledge in her mind — the strength of his handshake, the way he said "hello." This raw sense of desperation was permitted to surface in the loveliest of ways — every word that passed through Martin's teeth she plucked up and held close. 

I knew this scene had impacted me in a wonderful way because I found myself reacting to this flood of emotions in such a personal way, despite the fact that I never had (or lost) a child of my own. 

I could talk for ages about this movie…but I won't, obviously. HOWEVER, this was one of the most pleasant, satisfying films I have ever seen — I would highly recommend it. 5/5.

MYST Post #2: Lost In Translation

 I chose to watch "Lost in Translation." (Link to summary if needed: http://www.fandango.com/lostintranslation_v283628/plotsummary) In terms of my opinion regarding the picture's storyline, this one isn't so easy to put into words; as the film initially played, my aversion to the whole concept surrounding it grew with each passing scene. When Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson began singing karaoke to each other, it was officially a drawn-out, insincere love affair (in my mind). I had been put off by this genre even before I pressed play; I've never enjoyed romance films. With all of the new ideas and images filling people's minds every day, with all of this potential to share thoughts that have been especially crafted to society's current political, environmental, and emotional standpoints, why bother devoting time to creating a romance that, no matter how one tries to bend it, has been done so many times before? The concept of love stays constant within the world as a whole, absolutely constant. Sure, each individual experiences disparate forms of love at varying points of his or her life, but these emotions sit dormant within us until provoked to surface. Love is patient and never-fleeting, which is in contrast to the diminishing significance that frequently surrounds current events. Why not make a film to capture government shutdowns, the resignation of a Pope, a hostage crisis — that film will provide a necessary and effective encapsulation of situations just as important as finding "the perfect match." Romance and exploration and passion between humans is and has been at our disposal since the beginning of time. But I do understand. People are in love with love, it's a core part of who we are. Love is a powerful and ubiquitous theme, and audiences will never tire of it. I'm  just one opinion, but I had to get it out there, I guess.

Though I clearly had a difficult time getting past the content of the film, I did notice the way it was presented.

    One of the most prominent techniques employed throughout the film was asymmetrical imagery, which presumably represented the alienation and hopelessness felt by the main characters. It almost seemed to act as a cheat-sheet for the audience. Bill Murray looking listlessly out a car window at the overwhelming intensity of the city? Since his face is not centered, but instead off to the left, the rule of thirds has been violated. Not only this, but the remaining space in the shot is filled with an out-of-focus view of the city lights. What once would have been a fairly ordinary opening shot now clearly represents a disconnect between a man and his surroundings, which causes us to ask: why? Similarly, the scene in which Bill Murray is propped on the very right edge of his hotel room bed also blatantly signifies a sense of imbalance both on the bed and within the character's own mind. Bill Murray is constantly being short-changed by the camera — his head poking out from the side, and if he does become centered in the frame it will only be for a moment. This character is so constantly depicted as "half a man" that it is almost too obvious when his budding interactions with Johansson are continually portrayed as in focus and in balance. Good, he found his other half. Balance is restored.
     Another reoccurring technique that was utilized — a continuous exaggeration of Japanese stereotypes (as the film is set in Tokyo). This, again, created a sense of alienation in the characters from their surroundings, which more easily allowed them to gravitate toward each other. The acknowledgment of these stereotypes also provided a foundation on which the two could build their relationship, because the feeling of "belonging" was absent in both of them at that time.
    The majority of techniques found in "Lost In Translation" were selected for the sole purpose of emphasizing the emptiness and isolation and puzzlement felt by Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansson until they found each other — long shots with lots of negative space, off-kilter camera angles, and prolonged close-ups.

   One scene that had an unusually strong impact on me involved Scarlet Johansson alone. Looking into the hotel mirror she begins to steadily apply a shade of lipstick, but this is done with a quiet intensity. Though the color was fairly neutral, the act still contrasted sharply with her choice of wardrobe, which consisted of a plain blue sweatshirt and a pair of underwear. Johansson then proceeds to adorn the hotel room with these peachy flowery chandelier-type ornaments, and then goes on to stub her toe on the way down from decorating. I don't know if it actually has any significant meaning within the film as a whole, but this scene really did stick out to me. I appreciated the idea of trying to add vitality to that which isn't so readily receiving it — putting lipstick on a woman who has nowhere to go, bringing life to a room which really doesn't accept it. There's this subtle, desperate sense of hope that weaves its way through the scene, and its simplicity was refreshing.

I couldn't get over my own disinterest in the genre itself, and that caused my appreciation of the acting and cinematic techniques to suffer.

Formal Film Study: Steven Spielberg

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom

The Color Purple

Empire of the Sun

 The theme of lost innocence (that is eventually regained) is one of the threads that ties these three films together.

This motif undoubtedly leaked its way into the forefront of both The Color Purple and Empire of the Sun, which allowed me to make the initial link. Its obvious prominence in the first two films led me to hope that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom would provide the same result so I could have a concrete connection to focus on in this blogpost. At first, I appeared to have no such luck — Indiana Jones is a full grown man: capable, admirable, and adventurous throughout his journey. But who says the main character should be the one embodying the main theme? (everyone) Sure, he risks his life to rescue famine-stricken villagers and liberate thousands of child slaves from the nefarious goddess Kali, whose followers have stolen the sacred Shivalinga in order to intensify the power of the dark night and ultimately destroy human purity as we know it...but is he really all that important? For the sake of being cohesive, let’s go with not at this very moment. The plot’s real value stems not from Jones’ own actions, but from those who are being impacted by the decisions he ultimately carries out. That is where the loss of innocence comes into play. Ah, the benefits of individual interpretation.

So now that I’ve managed to stretch that theme right into my third and final film, we’ll start with The Color Purple.

    The Color Purple follows the life of Celie, who has been physically, mentally, and sexually abused into submission by those who are supposed to love and protect her. After bearing her father’s two children, Celie is tossed into the hands of Albert. It is clear that this marriage is not comprised of compassion and affection, but fear and desperation. Happiness briefly takes the place of hopelessness when her sister visits, but this, too, fades quickly. When Shug Avery, Albert’s mistress and “true love”, comes to stay at his home, there is an obvious shift that begins to occur in Celie. The two women’s relationship grows stronger each day that they’re together, and Shug eventually helps Celie recover letters that Celie’s sister, Nettie, has been sending her for decades — letters that Albert has kept hidden away. Nettie is one of the few people that provides happiness and support to Celie, and this discovery leads to a sense of courage and motivation within herself. Celie finally leaves her abusive husband. 
It’s evident where lost innocence comes into play — Celie never had a childhood. Twice pregnant by fourteen and married off a year later, all she ever got to experience were hardships, and all she ever knew was “how to tell a lie.”  However, in this film, it appears that lost innocence is regained. I became most aware of this as I honed in on how Celie was portrayed before and after her discovery of Nettie’s letters (which spurred the shift from oppression to freedom). The younger Celie was silent, and expressed the majority of her thoughts and feelings through her “letters to God.” Also, she was often separated from others in one way or another: signaling to Nettie through windows, waving to others from behind a fence. Celie was never truly looked at, which was emphasized through her often being depicted as a shadow — she was never seen as just a child or just a girl, but as an ugly, worn-out housemaid, which is where her loss of innocence is evident. The most prominent way in which she begins to harness this sense of innocence again is through her conversation with Shug: “I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don’t notice it.” Shug instills in Celie the importance of appreciating every bit of every day in one’s life, which is exactly what Celie wasn’t given the opportunity to do early on. As she found the strength to escape the ones who kept her eyes down and her mind closed, the opportunity to enjoy every aspect of life presented itself. 

    Empire of the Sun also emphasizes lost innocence that is re-established in a bit of a crooked, morbid way. Jamie Graham did have a childhood (at least more so than Celie). However, it was never filled with the simplicity one assumes a childhood should; Jamie was overprotected and overprivileged, spending his boyhood in Shanghai International Settlement, constantly stimulated by luxury. The film takes place in 1941, shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. The Japanese begin to occupy the Settlement, chaos ensues, Jamie is separated from his parents and forced to remain in his now abandoned home. Eventually he is discovered and taken in by an American sailor, Basie, and a few of Basie’s friends. In order to keep from being abandoned once again, Jamie utilizes the only knowledge he possesses — where the men can locate opulent jewels and furnishings that fill the homes surrounding him. The wandering group is eventually found, captured, and taken to an Internment Camp, and this is where the idea of lost innocence comes into play. 

It is obvious that Jamie’s innocence was robbed of him during this invasion, but he, too, experiences a resurgence of this as he establishes a familiar way of life in the very unfamiliar circumstances: Jamie allows Dr. Rawlins, the camp’s medic, to develop into a makeshift father figure, and he befriends a Japanese boy from the other side of the camp, one with whom he can discuss his fascinations and aspirations. In a way, one could be convinced that the very situation that stripped away Jamie's innocence also provided the framework to his construction of a more inventive way to experience his surroundings, reflecting the expansive imagination a child often possesses.  
Given the bleak environment, there is no room for his usual cushioned, isolated way of thinking that wealth provided. Jamie had to be independent, he had to work thoughts and ideas through his head with no influence or assistance from the outside, so he had to escape into fantasy to better manage the brutal reality of his circumstance. A few examples that stuck out most in my mind were Jamie’s reaction to Japanese warplanes attacking an internment camp — the odd celebration of a surreal, dream-like scenario, and continued evasion of truth through his detached discussion of the ownership of the runway. Also, Jamie's newfound perception of death — in his mind, he holds the ability to resurrect those who have already passed. This certainly isn’t a conventional resurgence of innocence, because it was brought on by traumatic external pressures, but Jamie did uncover a part of his mind that provided  shelter from hardened reality. No, he did not have a completely innocent mind, but he learned to cope with reality in a pure, child-like manner.

We are so caught up in the idea that childhood is the only time in one’s life for observation and admiration of simplicity, that only in this critical period can one find herself noticing the color of each flower in a field, or find himself playing “God” in order to heal loved ones. Spielberg seems to enjoy introducing familiar, comfortable concepts and developing them in a way that forces the audience to evaluate its most unexplored components.

    Now, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom does embody the idea of stolen innocence being regained, though it has little to do with the main character, and more to do with those he is fighting for. Without getting into too much detail as to why Indiana Jones is there, the villagers he comes across have been plagued with famine; their plight has been linked to the increasing “power of the dark night” held by the Palace of Pankot. Within this palace is the Shivalinga, a sacred stone stolen from the villagers in order to appease the evil goddess Kali.

   As an audience, we tend to be very hyper-aware of the main character’s thoughts and actions, and tend to focus less on what’s going on around him or her. In the case of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, those in the background were absolutely essential in forwarding the storyline; therefore, we should provide them with just as much attention. There is a much more concrete “loss of innocence” moment in the villagers’ lives, which is when the Shivalinga** disappears. This stone, one of five, was appointed by Shiva to a man named Sankara, who was given the message that he must “go forth and battle evil with it.” The Shivalinga brought prosperity to the village, and was a complete representation of their most vital beliefs. Evil is the corruption and pollution of mind and body, so if the purpose of the Shivalinga is to destroy the evils of the world, it must be a stone of purity. Therefore, the loss of the stone signifies the loss of purity, or innocence, within the village. There was not only a loss of purity through the abduction of the Shivalinga, but also of the village’s children. Luckily Jones makes it his duty to travel through this Palace of Kali worshippers, and after eating monkey brains, and drinking Kali blood, and watching a man’s heart being pulled out of his chest, he succeeds in bringing back the lost innocence to the village once again. 

** http://indianajones.wikia.com/wiki/Sankara_Stones

1935 Film Group Project

 1. Since the storyline of "Sabotage and Salvation" has already been covered in class, I'll just recap: a married couple's relationship becomes turbulent after the wife's promiscuity has been indirectly revealed to the husband. He, in turn, utilizes a series of comedic ploys and disguises to weaken, and eventually break, her chance of successfully leading this secret double life. Despite all of the deceit within the film, the two eventually come clean to each other, allowing them to piece their marriage back together; enforcing a message that honesty and commitment can strengthen the bond of a weakened marriage is essential to the time period. Why is this important? It's just another way to make an unpleasant circumstance seem easier to swallow — the 1930s was filled with political tumult and economic complications. Not only was the Great Depression at its peak in America, but also fascist political movements were rising overseas; in an era of such uncertainty, audiences must have a way to ground themselves, and one of those ways is through film. Providing a sense of relief to the audience is accomplished in several ways. For example, adding a "realistic" look to the movie (not "glossy" like with Paramount) allows for a more authentic film. Then, one may subconsciously convince him or herself that a "small-scale" issue such as a rocky marriage is worthy of occupying space in one's mind; I know it seems pointless to be swapping one bad situation out for another, but I'm going to assume that the majority of people would rather focus on issues that can arise between husband and wife rather than the issues that were developing between the government and its citizens, or between nations. Finally, the "happy ending" provides a more concrete sense of solace because it instills the idea that even the toughest situation can be salvaged and repaired.

2. The film is a comedy. By taking a more serious storyline and intertwining silly disguises and slapstick routines, the audience is better able to accept and digest the reality of the message — not everything in life goes exactly according to plan. Also, our main actor, James Cagney, was well known for his comedic timing and constant stream of energy.

3. Warner Bros. Studio seemed like a very nice fit for our film. It was known for being dialogue-oriented. This is one of the most important reasons it was our studio of choice, because sound was only recently introduced into the film world before the 1930s. Because of sound, the audience no longer is given as much freedom to interpret what is occurring on-screen because the actors' words define exactly what their actions are meant to portray. Since it is most vital that our film ends on a high note in order to appeal to the masses, dialogue provides the perfect opportunity to avoid confusion about whether or not the couple had worked out the situation. Not only this, but Warner Bros. generally targeted social issues in their films. While we mainly focus on diverting attention away from political and economic turmoil, we also touch on the idea of gender equality; at this time, women were fighting to be considered just as capable as men. This is emphasized in "Sabotage and Salvation" through the wife's boldness in seeking another man, and her cleverness in having hidden it for so long (though these are more negative traits to possess in this situation, it still portrays a woman as something other than an obedient housewife).

4. We chose Ray Enright as our director because not only was he associated with Warner Bros., but also he specialized in a "fast-paced" style of film, which jives with the quickness of the sabotage scenes and the intensity of the dialogue. James Cagney, as stated above, was picked for his energetic performances and deadpan comic timing. Our main actress, Myrna Loy, had an exotic appearance — with such a mischievous female role having to be played, the audience may cope better with the idea of her being nonnative, so that they can still whole-heartedly believe in the purity of the American people. Cary Grant was chosen as the "secret lover" solely on his good looks. The focus of the film will be on editing, because it contains lots of rapid cuts and swift panning scenes in order to keep the audience fully engaged in the plot (Conrad A. Nervig employed for this because of his previous success in editing with the film "Eskimo").

5. The only issues that we may run into with the Hays Code are the idea of a woman selling her virtue, which could get us in trouble if someone brings to attention the fact that cheating = unfaithful = diminished purity, and the idea we may be tarnishing the institution of marriage, which is supposed to be considered a stable, successful, eternal bond.
*We are using black and white film*

6. I really agreed with most of the group's decisions for the film. If we were using a similar storyline but for a more current audience, I would say we need to have multiple characters' perspectives on the situation in order to get a better sense of how each is individually affected by that one secret. However, because the plot is already a bit crude and relatively new for the 1930s, having a clean-cut approach to the affair is better (less confusion). It's not like we would have won any major awards for this piece of work, but I think we did just fine for a week's worth of brainstorming.

MYST Post #1: Django Unchained

    Set before the Civil War, "Django Unchained” revolves around the coming together of Dr. Schultz, a bounty hunter on the trail of the Brittle brothers, and Django, a slave who has the ability to lead Schultz to his bounty. With the promise of being freed, Django willingly assists Schultz in his task; instead of then parting ways, the two embark on another journey — find and free Django’s wife Broomhilda. They eventually make their way to Calvin Candie’s plantation, where Broomhilda has been kept, and begin to form a plan for the rescue. Candie’s plantation is, in part, used to train slaves to battle each other for the pleasure of onlookers. With this information, Django and Schultz mask their true intentions by feigning interest in this trade, which will allow them to discreetly “purchase” Broomhilda without arousing suspicion. The plan backfires when Candie’s house slave becomes aware of the true plan. With Candie being informed of the actual intention — and feeling as though he’s been made a fool of — he seeks revenge. Not unexpectedly, a huge, bloody gun fight breaks out. Important characters are lost but Django is eventually reunited with his wife, and they both walk away free. 

    With our current focus on early films in class, I found myself most aware of the extent to which symbolism was used, and how that has become a norm in current films; there has rarely been a film produced in the last decade that doesn’t have some sort of message or broader meaning to it. When film first became popular, it wasn't relying on the audience's ability to extract meaning and make interpretations to enhance the movie, it was just a fact that displaying a moving picture would be pleasing and somewhat surreal to the eye, whether it had deeper meaning or not. In “Django Unchained”, the audience is expected to acknowledge the symbolism in multiple aspects of the film: costumes, music, archetypes, dialogue. The extent of detailing is obvious in one of the costumes that Django wears in a particular scene, and its striking similarity to the painting “The Blue Boy.” Knowing Tarantino's knack for subtleties, this couldn't just be a weird coincidence. Of course, it wasn't. Apparently a German filmmaker by the name of F. W. Murnau had been inspired by this painting, and also well-known for the invention of a camera technique known as the “Unchained Camera Technique”. So, yeah, that totally blew my mind. But that’s what i’m saying...there are so many details slipped into films now that the audience has to work to figure out. I am also aware that Quentin Tarantino, the director, seems to have a certain way of personalizing his films, just like any other well-known director. Martin Scorsese uses popular music and slow motion, Tim Burton employs peculiar characters and macabre settings and plots, and Quentin Tarantino seems fascinated with emphasizing the over-all view of a film and less interested in smooth individual sequences. I think this is why “Django Unchained” appears, on the surface, a bit cartoonish. Another thing that really stood out was the comedic relief thrown in between an overall darker film— I found that the KKK scene was almost inappropriately hilarious. 

One of the scenes that caught my attention was directly after Django and Dr. Shultz arrived at Calvin Candie’s plantation. The scene opens with Candie in the foreground, smoking his pipe in a wagon covered with red velvet, startled by his house slave Stephen tottering down the steps of the main house to see who has arrived. Even within the first few seconds, I became aware that characters in the main focus of the scene were constantly and completely surrounded by either slaves working on the house or men guarding Calvin Candie, despite the fact that his manner was relaxed. As Stephen approaches the wagon, he and Candie exchange friendly jabs as though they’re old friends; Stephen comfortably leans against the wagon, and Candie shifts his position to accommodate Stephen’s movement around him. This comes as a shock to the viewer considering the obvious status difference of the two. As Stephen begins to question the presence of Django, not actually having turned around to acknowledge either of the men, Django calmly, but sharply, interrupts him — obviously annoyed with the lack of respect he is being given by Stephen. Stephen begins to retort and has to be calmed down by Candie, who informs him that Django is, in fact, free. The subsequent dialogue between Calvin and Stephen is what made me realize the importance of a seemingly minor scene, because of the confusion that it brings to the forefront of the viewer’s mind — Why is Candie, a slave owner, seemingly accepting Django as a man deserving of respect? Why does Stephen find it so hard to accept that Django is free? Why does Stephen appear to dislike the fact that a man of his same color is free? Why is Calvin having to convince Stephen that he should respect Django? It’s a very bizarre conversation. The fact that Stephen simultaneously knows his place as a slave yet feels as though he doesn’t have to “take lip” from a free man, just because he’s black, is odd. The conversation between Calvin and Stephen continues along the same lines, and evetually the scene closes with Candie over-enthusiastically introducing his sister to the men. I thought what made the scene so effective was the simplicity of the editing and camera techniques; by simply alternating between medium shots and close-ups the viewer was able to focus more on what was being said rather than how it was being presented. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vNrG5lD2zmQ

Fantastic cast, keeps the audience engaged the entire time, and a plot that is complex but doesn't overwhelm the audience. However, I really don't find the film visually appealing. I understand why Tarantino makes some scenes (usually the violent ones) appear a bit cartoonish and over-exaggerated, but it just throws me off.