Sunday, October 17, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Federico Fellini: Auteur Theory
Critics of the auteur theory, in short, believe that the filmmaking process is inherently so large and spread out over so many people, that to narrow down the entire work to one person’s “vision” is both inaccurate and likely inconsiderate to the dozens upon dozens of people who worked on it. Despite this, however, the theory still holds water, and it does seem that certain directors have recurring themes in their work which leave their films wholly and uniquely “theirs;” Federico Fellini is one such director. Many points could be made towards this argument, such as the frequently autobiographical nature of his films, his tendency to appear in his films, and his incredibly involved role in making his films beyond simply directing. However, perhaps the most important element to discuss is the construction of his films, and how they are frequently very open and often episodic in nature.
Over time, Fellini began to develop this technique; characters would frequently experience long flashbacks or dreams, as in 8 ½, the films would be comprised of self-contained “episodes,” as in La Dolce Vita, or into more cohesive “acts,” as in Nights of Cabiria. As John Coldwell Stubbs puts it, this non-holistic approach helps distinguish him by “pushing against the grain of conventional filmmaking,” an approach dubbed the “open form(1).” However, what makes this approach so distinctly his is how effectively it is implemented; a story told with a disjointed method has all the potential in the world to be incomprehensible, jarring, and pointless. However, when Fellini opens La Dolce Vita by portraying a helicopter carrying a statue of an open-armed Christ over a corrupted and shallow Rome, he is setting the mood for what will follow over the course of the movie, as well as establishing the subtle religious undertones that become more apparent in certain “chapters” of the movie.
In addition, his films’ endings show closure in a unique way to complement the episodic nature of what preceded them. Sometimes this comes via a deliberate triggering of déjà vu; for instance, in Nights of Cabiria, the film ends with Cabiria in exactly the same situation she was in at the beginning of the film. A lover has deceived and robbed her, and virtually left her for dead. However, the theft at the end is far more drastic; Cabiria is left homeless and destitute. In spite of this, however, the film ends with a long shot of Cabiria smiling, a makeshift parade of joyful people around her. The movie could be said to have two episodes, which are virtually identical, except one portrays her attitude before her adventures in the movie, the other one portraying her afterwards. It is this reflection of character development, this simple yet highly effective technique that marks Fellini as truly distinctive.
In short, many of the arguments that are held against the auteur theory seem to fall short when applied to Federico Fellini. Even if one discards the obvious points, such as the blatantly autobiographical story of a filmmaker with writer’s block in 8 ½, Fellini’s style still shines through as being markedly his. Though the auteur theory still demands unfair generalization and the attribution of massive endeavors to one person, in this case it holds more water than most.
(1)Stubbs, John C.. Federico Fellini as Auteur: Seven Aspects of His Films. 1st ed. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2006. Print.
Over time, Fellini began to develop this technique; characters would frequently experience long flashbacks or dreams, as in 8 ½, the films would be comprised of self-contained “episodes,” as in La Dolce Vita, or into more cohesive “acts,” as in Nights of Cabiria. As John Coldwell Stubbs puts it, this non-holistic approach helps distinguish him by “pushing against the grain of conventional filmmaking,” an approach dubbed the “open form(1).” However, what makes this approach so distinctly his is how effectively it is implemented; a story told with a disjointed method has all the potential in the world to be incomprehensible, jarring, and pointless. However, when Fellini opens La Dolce Vita by portraying a helicopter carrying a statue of an open-armed Christ over a corrupted and shallow Rome, he is setting the mood for what will follow over the course of the movie, as well as establishing the subtle religious undertones that become more apparent in certain “chapters” of the movie.
In addition, his films’ endings show closure in a unique way to complement the episodic nature of what preceded them. Sometimes this comes via a deliberate triggering of déjà vu; for instance, in Nights of Cabiria, the film ends with Cabiria in exactly the same situation she was in at the beginning of the film. A lover has deceived and robbed her, and virtually left her for dead. However, the theft at the end is far more drastic; Cabiria is left homeless and destitute. In spite of this, however, the film ends with a long shot of Cabiria smiling, a makeshift parade of joyful people around her. The movie could be said to have two episodes, which are virtually identical, except one portrays her attitude before her adventures in the movie, the other one portraying her afterwards. It is this reflection of character development, this simple yet highly effective technique that marks Fellini as truly distinctive.
In short, many of the arguments that are held against the auteur theory seem to fall short when applied to Federico Fellini. Even if one discards the obvious points, such as the blatantly autobiographical story of a filmmaker with writer’s block in 8 ½, Fellini’s style still shines through as being markedly his. Though the auteur theory still demands unfair generalization and the attribution of massive endeavors to one person, in this case it holds more water than most.
(1)Stubbs, John C.. Federico Fellini as Auteur: Seven Aspects of His Films. 1st ed. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2006. Print.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: Director's Notes
FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS- DIRECTOR’S NOTES
He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
-The title quote is, in essence, the movie completely encapsulated in one sentence. Las Vegas is portrayed in the story as essentially a microcosm of the ugly America. Harsh, overpowering, and full of shallow, manipulative people, the city should represent in the film a dark reality. Gonzo and Duke deal with this reality by avoiding it as much as possible, anesthetizing themselves with any substance they can.
THEMES:
-Incoherence. The essential plot to the story is that Gonzo and Duke are covering the motorcycle race. However, this only serves as a backdrop for the overarching chaos that is the movie. This movie, in essence, portrays nothing more or less than a drug-addled journey through Las Vegas. Exposition is minimal, and for the most part the characters overcome nothing and learn nothing. Some mistakes should be welcomed; by no means is this script a rigidly complex jigsaw puzzle.
This feeling of incoherence should also transfer over to the dialogue; lines should be delivered in a way which helps communicate a state of inebriation. In other words, loud, obnoxious, and frequently with an edge to them that suggests that the character’s train of thought is constantly derailing.
-Urgency. Throughout the movie, there should be a harsh sense of panic and anxiety. Duke and Gonzo are never comfortably cruising anywhere; every one of their objectives is met in a rush. Much like a student who procrastinates, they inevitably underestimate how long they need to complete any given task, let alone when that task is accompanied by hard drugs.
-Zeitgeist. In essence, the movie portrays a counter-culture in its death throes, slowly but surely fading out of relevancy. Duke and Gonzo are symbolically the last vestiges of the drug-addled hippie movement, simultaneously garnering the honor of being the last of a species while displaying the worst attributes of that species which led to its extinction. To be more specific, their constant drug use may make their trip more interesting, but ultimately they have accomplished very little. Imagery and set design in the movie should reflect the ambience of an era fading away; elements of the 60’s should be present, but never prominent.
Note about Gonzo- Gonzo is at all times unhinged. At any given moment he should have the look of someone who is just about to snap—because he usually is. “Gonzo journalism” is by nature relentlessly spontaneous, unpredictable, and scattershot. Transfer this to the character.
Overall, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a psychedelic nightmare. It is a reflection of the paranoia and ultimate futility of relying on chemicals as a mechanism to cope with an often unfavorable world. However, the movie itself, much like an actual high, only becomes unpleasant after the fact. The audience should be taken on a ride, and left at the end to consider the implications of what they just saw.
He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.
-The title quote is, in essence, the movie completely encapsulated in one sentence. Las Vegas is portrayed in the story as essentially a microcosm of the ugly America. Harsh, overpowering, and full of shallow, manipulative people, the city should represent in the film a dark reality. Gonzo and Duke deal with this reality by avoiding it as much as possible, anesthetizing themselves with any substance they can.
THEMES:
-Incoherence. The essential plot to the story is that Gonzo and Duke are covering the motorcycle race. However, this only serves as a backdrop for the overarching chaos that is the movie. This movie, in essence, portrays nothing more or less than a drug-addled journey through Las Vegas. Exposition is minimal, and for the most part the characters overcome nothing and learn nothing. Some mistakes should be welcomed; by no means is this script a rigidly complex jigsaw puzzle.
This feeling of incoherence should also transfer over to the dialogue; lines should be delivered in a way which helps communicate a state of inebriation. In other words, loud, obnoxious, and frequently with an edge to them that suggests that the character’s train of thought is constantly derailing.
-Urgency. Throughout the movie, there should be a harsh sense of panic and anxiety. Duke and Gonzo are never comfortably cruising anywhere; every one of their objectives is met in a rush. Much like a student who procrastinates, they inevitably underestimate how long they need to complete any given task, let alone when that task is accompanied by hard drugs.
-Zeitgeist. In essence, the movie portrays a counter-culture in its death throes, slowly but surely fading out of relevancy. Duke and Gonzo are symbolically the last vestiges of the drug-addled hippie movement, simultaneously garnering the honor of being the last of a species while displaying the worst attributes of that species which led to its extinction. To be more specific, their constant drug use may make their trip more interesting, but ultimately they have accomplished very little. Imagery and set design in the movie should reflect the ambience of an era fading away; elements of the 60’s should be present, but never prominent.
Note about Gonzo- Gonzo is at all times unhinged. At any given moment he should have the look of someone who is just about to snap—because he usually is. “Gonzo journalism” is by nature relentlessly spontaneous, unpredictable, and scattershot. Transfer this to the character.
Overall, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a psychedelic nightmare. It is a reflection of the paranoia and ultimate futility of relying on chemicals as a mechanism to cope with an often unfavorable world. However, the movie itself, much like an actual high, only becomes unpleasant after the fact. The audience should be taken on a ride, and left at the end to consider the implications of what they just saw.
Morality In Lolita
Vladimir Nabokov raised a lot of questions when he released Lolita, questions which to most are at best uncomfortable and at worst horrifying. Lolita struck a nerve amongst its audience; the true morality of the story is murky to say the least. There are so many variables and conflicting ideas that there are virtually no definite lessons to be learned.
For starters, there is the question of Humbert Humbert’s reliability as a narrator. It is undeniable that his account, which serves as a testimony before the court, has been embellished, at least to some extent. However, the degree to which Humbert stretches the truth and to what effect is uncertain. In chapter 1, he says, “You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style” [1, 8]. Over the course of the novel, this phrase only comes back to haunt the reader; it always seems that when Humbert pins the fault of his sexual advances on his victim, he does so with beautiful prose in order to seduce the reader. However, in this passage he seems to confess outright exactly what he is doing. This raises the question of whether or not he even believes himself, if he feels the need to be somewhat tongue-in-cheek about his own literary manipulation. He also says in chapter 8, “Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!” This seems to be a fairly accurate representation of Humbert in general.
Humbert’s prose seems chameleonic in nature, able to appear a down-to-earth humble man in one thought, an erudite snob who looks down on Americans the next, or even an intensely romantic lover the next. This makes him a difficult target; his sexual desire for underage children is undeniably wrong; he is forcing his basest, most vile desires upon children, effectively stunting their growth. However, were the object of his affection closer to his age, his prose suddenly becomes beautiful and poetic rather than manipulative. Despite almost always being the aggressor in these situations, Humbert has an uncanny ability to paint himself as a victim of circumstance; in chapter 4 he says, “All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do” [3, 11]. Virtually every point of that statement is to some degree debatable; for instance, Humbert seems to assume that his own frenzied passion for Lolita is reciprocated, but since we only see things from Humbert’s point of view, that could be debated.
Overall the morality in Lolita is certainly open to interpretation. It is hard to argue that Humbert is more villain than victim, but even still, in a twisted way he is somewhat admirable in his ability to find poetry and beauty in such a terrible and disturbing concept as pedophilia. Nonetheless, there does not seem to be any definite moral given by the end of the story; it is up to the audience to figure out for themselves whether a character who can eloquently defend his more twisted side is deserving of any more sympathy than one who cannot.
For starters, there is the question of Humbert Humbert’s reliability as a narrator. It is undeniable that his account, which serves as a testimony before the court, has been embellished, at least to some extent. However, the degree to which Humbert stretches the truth and to what effect is uncertain. In chapter 1, he says, “You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style” [1, 8]. Over the course of the novel, this phrase only comes back to haunt the reader; it always seems that when Humbert pins the fault of his sexual advances on his victim, he does so with beautiful prose in order to seduce the reader. However, in this passage he seems to confess outright exactly what he is doing. This raises the question of whether or not he even believes himself, if he feels the need to be somewhat tongue-in-cheek about his own literary manipulation. He also says in chapter 8, “Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!” This seems to be a fairly accurate representation of Humbert in general.
Humbert’s prose seems chameleonic in nature, able to appear a down-to-earth humble man in one thought, an erudite snob who looks down on Americans the next, or even an intensely romantic lover the next. This makes him a difficult target; his sexual desire for underage children is undeniably wrong; he is forcing his basest, most vile desires upon children, effectively stunting their growth. However, were the object of his affection closer to his age, his prose suddenly becomes beautiful and poetic rather than manipulative. Despite almost always being the aggressor in these situations, Humbert has an uncanny ability to paint himself as a victim of circumstance; in chapter 4 he says, “All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do” [3, 11]. Virtually every point of that statement is to some degree debatable; for instance, Humbert seems to assume that his own frenzied passion for Lolita is reciprocated, but since we only see things from Humbert’s point of view, that could be debated.
Overall the morality in Lolita is certainly open to interpretation. It is hard to argue that Humbert is more villain than victim, but even still, in a twisted way he is somewhat admirable in his ability to find poetry and beauty in such a terrible and disturbing concept as pedophilia. Nonetheless, there does not seem to be any definite moral given by the end of the story; it is up to the audience to figure out for themselves whether a character who can eloquently defend his more twisted side is deserving of any more sympathy than one who cannot.
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