by Jack Brown
Welcome home Guwap. Harmony Korine explores the raw, hyperbolic extent to which partially clothed, amoral, hot-and-ready college girls are willing to go in order to achieve their god-given right of Spring Break. Korine curates a tailored critique of a less-than-niche demographic of depraved, college aged dudes and bitchez in the form of a hyper stylized liquid narrative.
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By Israel Lawton The opening of Noah Baumbach's Kicking and Screaming is agonizing. It is 12 minutes of pure torture; cruelty for the sake of comedy, a callus scab of wit covering a puss filled bourgeoise wound. And all the while, you are sickened by a terrifying realization: "I am loving this", you think. "I know these people, or I Knew them, and I hated them and supported them and I miss them". This is the strange, tragic magic of Baumbach's debut film, and a notable technique he would employ in later films with different goals and aesthetics. The plot of Kicking and Screaming is lose but sharp: it meanders from apartment to classroom to bar then back to apartments, with the camera alternating between forlorn trailing shots and voyeuristic framings of the character's most personal moments. All of this laced with the occasional flashback centering around the broken love story between Grover and Jane, which serves as the heart wrenching lynchpin for how our apathetic anti heroes got into this situation in the first place. In the first scene we are largely repulsed by our character's actions and mannerisms: we see them tear each other down, complain about the luxury of their parents money, and aimlessly discuss philosophy that they have had no point of reference to understand or truly care about. However, as the film progresses in the months after their graduation, we come to know these pampered sages, we come to see their actions in a broader context that lights them in lush sadness and desperation. Every line of the opening 12 minutes, from Chet's self absorbed monologue about being in college for 10 years to the cruel banter of of Jane and Grover slowly becomes clear. We come to understand that what we perceived as an empty parroting of philosophy for the sake of one upping each other is exactly that; but is also an honest attempt to come to terms with grand issues that, in a variety of trivial ways, are impacting their lives and future. This is the real charm and power of Baumbach's writing: that the distasteful quirks and mannerisms that we are initially introduced to become the things we prize in the characters. We see these people at their moments of most humiliating weakness, as well as their most abusive, but also at their most supportive and forgiving. In many ways, this gives the film something of a cyclical tone: with every new situation we see their behavior loop back around to our initial perception of them, and as they never seem to move on they seem stuck in their own self immolating feedback loops. For this reason, Kicking and Screaming (as well as most other Baumbach films) take on a world of their own: a world of broken dreams, limp ambition and wails of anger turning into soft sarcastic whimpers. Without ever breaking the film into surrealist metaphor, a fantastic quest or melodramatic camp, Baumbach's films become immersive experiences; realist nightmares that viewers often find lingering long after the film ends. This is connected to a broader concept of film theory I have been bouncing around for a while: that all film is fundamentally surreal, that through the process of creating a film, editing it together and viewing it the work becomes something beyond reality, regardless of any artistic intent otherwise. Even the most painstakingly realist film is an exploration of an artists perception of reality, designed to simulate their experiences and beliefs in the topic at hand. Baumbach's films are the perfect example of this: films that strive to show the real, day to day lives of the characters, that quickly become manifestations of Baumbach's own anxieties and desires. Every time I watch a Noah Baumbach film, I squirm. Sometimes I squirm with delight, others with embarrassment, but most of the time with pain. His films are painful, not because they are real; but because they are the opposite: they are personal, and fiercely unforgiving. And from this brutality comes a raw, gaping catharsis. by Israel Lawton Horror is a genre built on tropes. Where as science fiction looks eternally to the future, to exploration, horror looks to our ancient, primal fears. Good horror, therefore, strives to reinterpret symbols of these fears in new and uncanny ways that both reinvigorate our terror but also tap into something we understand as far older and larger then ourselves; something we are petrified to realize we already recognize. Film has elaborated on the mythology of horror expansively, over the last 70 years arguably becoming the tradition's most prolific and widespread medium. Many of our earliest understanding of horror symbols and creatures comes from film; the entire holiday of Halloween in the United States is dominated by portrayals of characters or interpretation of characters not from literature or theatre but from film. Film is, of corse, not an ancient medium, but it's synthesis of literature, music, photography and theatre have created a mythology all to itself. Film's that have been released only 90 years ago have become imitated, referenced and alluded to so often that they have become legend; instantly recognized by millions who perhaps will never see the original films or know of their existence. These tropes: the vampire, the haunted house, the mummy, the wolf man, the deranged serial killer, the exorcism, Satan, and so on, were not created by film. Many of them are ancient; occult even. But cinema has given them new life, new forms, that have come to dominate our perception of them. Though many viewers will never see these tropes first appearance in film, few will feel like they are missing information; horror cinema has become the new campfire stories, a collection of myths that many people can recite or parody without ever knowing how. Some of these myths are strikingly new: the myth of the "slasher" killer, (originating almost to the day as a clear response to the Charles Manson murders and other such serial killers of the 60s and 70s) have taken on a life of their own far beyond their role as screen villains. Most middle schoolers can tell you about Jason and Freddy and Micheal Myers; and even if they can't get all the original details right, neither can the production teams that readapt the films every couple of years. These characters have taken on a life of their own in the way only urban legends can. And the power of this comes from the trope. There is an urban legend of a babysitter who receives stomach churning calls from a man, only to discover that the man is calling from inside the house she is in. In 1979 this familiar tale was adapted into the tragically forgotten horror classic When A Stranger Calls, which despite having one the most referenced and infamous opening scenes in the history of the genre is often overlooked by fans of the genre. However, the legend was reworked, not in the tragically awful 2006 remake that even fewer people have seen, but in Wes Craven's epic 1996 meditation on horror, Scream. The parallels between the films move far beyond the trope of the caller inside the house; much like the opening 12 minutes of When A Stranger Calls the opening moments of Scream are the most iconic and beloved parts of the film. By masterfully retelling this legend though cinema, the myth is given new life and new power, surviving into future generations. It is this desire that leads to so many remakes and reinterpretations of classics; because the horror genre strives to shock; old films that were once sited as terrifying run the risk of being viewed as camp, and to the dismay of horror fans everywhere clueless studios remake classic films with no flair. However, the other drive to remake these films is far less cynical then the first: the desire to give new breath to a legend. Often this fails, but there are key and notable exceptions; most acclaimed being John Carpenter's 1982 version of The Thing, which so outshines the original source material The Thing From Another World that many do not even suspect it is a remake. Few genres, with perhaps the exception of Fantasy, rely so heavily on the usage of tropes, not as a crutch but a defined and essential aspect of the aesthetic. When dealing with an ancient evil in a Christian subculture, its power as part of a visual language comes from utilizing christian symbols and legends. Cinema is now our primary resource for the occult world of horror, and thus it's classics become grimoires, strange and ancient tomes from the forgotten days of Hollywood. by Jack Brown“What is good? All that enhances the feeling of power,
The Will to Power, and the power itself in man. What is bad? All that proceeds from weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, That residence is overcome.” -Friedrich Nietzsche The pursuit of power and to fulfill the ambition of the will is intrinsic in human motivation, the soul guides the body to create and change as it sees fit. Arrogance is the disillusionment to accomplish the task the soul wishes to have fulfilled. Only the temporal results of the will ambition merit any gravity. Idealism is in a constant state of cheap flux (e.g. Tom’s ideals as a philosopher). Failure to comply to an individual’s Will to Power or become subservient to another’s is the fault of the individual and no one else. The strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must. The body of Grace suffers the schadenfreude of Dogville’s extortion, the soul of Grace now hangs from it’s hands on perpendicular slabs of wood; a martyr to the notion of innate altruism. The earthly implications of Grace’s humanitarian will are utterly antithetical to the goals of her will due to her naive arrogance. Grace believes in the inherent good in humanity and seeks to belong inside of an intimate dynamic since her family dynamic is too egregious for her taste. Whereas, Tom believes good becomes corrupted because of seclusion and from others' neglect. Grace is at fault due to her ill utilized autonomy. She chooses to work the jobs set before her by the township then allows herself to degregated to the point of slave labor and casual rape. Grace puts her soul at stake for the possibility of makeshift harmony. To say that it’s the Dogville’s nature to exploit and rape is as true as it is ludicrous to say that Dogville’s nature is permissible because it’s their nature. Grace identifies neither of these. Grace’s Will to Power is that Dogville becomes a carrying and interconnected community, but her arrogance leads to believe that she is a turn-the-other-cheek moral savior while her noble cause and desire to belong becomes lost in a harsh and predatory reality. STRAY THOUGHT -- (Production owners take advantage of Grace’s demand within their market by shaping it to their full benefit. A single woman cannot unionize when in need of a place to stay and figurines to buy.) Although Grace is a naive runaway who hasn’t worked a day in her life, she still stands as an individual with the responsibility of autonomy as well as her Will to Power. Grace abjects herself to Tom’s will, (Grace’s will and Tom’s will are distinct from one and other, no matter how much their idealism may coalesce and no matter how thought out Tom’s idealism may be) and the only catharsis Grace can find for all the bad she has arrogantly put upon herself is Tom’s brains exiting his skull. Jack Brown is a former Portland Barista and current fashion and film boy genius working as a model and for The Salt Lake Film Society. He is also a student of Graphic Design at The University of Utah. He hails the only worthy deity, Lord Kubrick, thus spoke Zarathustra. by Aric HarrisonWhen Luis Buñel passed away in July of 1983 the New York Times described him as "an iconoclast, moralist, and revolutionary leader of avant-garde surrealism.” Throughout his career Buñel had meticulously crafted a style of experimental filmmaking that was as intellectual as it was visceral. Two filmmakers that praised Buñel for his auteur style were John Huston, who believed that, “regardless of genre, a Buñuel film is so distinctive as to be instantly recognizable” and Ingmar Bergman who said that, "Buñuel nearly always made Buñuelian films." One of the most Buñuelian sequences in all of his bizarre oeuvre is the ending of Simón of the Desert.
by Israel lawton This year I have had many spiritual experiences in films. The first was in Robert Egger's The Witch, a film I saw twice in a week and was profoundly effected by each time. To a lesser degree I had a comparable experience in the less cohesive Knight Of Cups, though that film has stayed with me far less. However, by far the most powerful experience I've had with film this year was a quadruple feature at a fellow Cashier's apartment a few weeks ago. Though all four films were spectacular, (I had seen two previously), the first two films we viewed brought me to tears and fall in that rare but treasured camp of cinematic experiences that may prove to be truly life changing. The first film was a film I had not seen before: Ang Lee's The Ice Storm. The second is a film I had seen several months earlier, and was thrilled to see again: Noah Baumbach's The Squid and the Whale. There is much to be written about these two films, indeed much already has, and I am currently working on an essay that will attempt to explain a more technical fascination with these films and attempt to discuss their successes more fully. However, the purpose of Notes on Cinema will be to keep a sort of cinematic diary, a collection of thoughts and experiences centered around the cinema I consume. I was brought to tears by these films, the process of watching the images edited in specific ways and played with sound changed the way I viewed my life, changed how i interacted with my co workers and family for days afterwards. I want to keep track of these experiences the way us writers do: by grasping at the straws of memory and winding them together into makeshift families or friends, then setting them on fire by casting them in stone. I hope to make this blog somewhere between journal, film criticism and film theory, as that is largely the way I live my life. When I see the last two minutes of The Squid and the Whale play out, either on screen or in my head, I feel my eyes well up with tears, and I see my whole life summarized and explained in perfect detail, the way I never could, even to a close friend. However, what causes this to happen is a great mystery of mise-en-scene: my parents never got a divorce, nor did they even fight much when I was a child. My upbringing was far from idyllic, but it's disruptions and chaos did not stem from any sort of conflict between my parents. However, despite this, I feel a constant desire to exhibit the last few minutes of Baumbach's film as a perfect summery of my life when i was 18. And this gets to the occult magic of it all: the bizarre assumption that we could only connect to stories and other art if it mirrors our experience; taken to it's logical extreme meaning that all art would exist along the perimeters of race, gender, class and age, something that I find not only disgusting but also almost unheard off. So my experience with The Squid and the Whale thus becomes a simple but deeply personal example of the lasting power of art: how something so simple, so obvious, can become world altering, life changing and reduce someone to tears. A few nights ago I was at another friend's apartment and attempted to explain the sensation of remembering every exact detail of a perfect moment, the shadows cast by wall hangings, the color of the picture frame on the table, the way I moved my hands, so that I could recreate it perfectly again if I needed to. Films such as the one's above seem to be the result of such strenuous observation; the ability to create something so personal it becomes surreal. In short, this project is an attempt to do just that: to recapture perfect moments with cinema. |
ContributorsThe contributors for Cashiers of Cinema are a menagerie of creators devoted to Radical Aesthetics. Meetings are held at the dumpster behind Winkie's. Archives
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