Jason Bellamy: Aggregate movie review sites like Metacritic and Rotten Tomatoes are never more predictable than when compiling the reviews of a Pixar release. Through almost fifteen years Pixar has been a cinematic goose laying digitally animated golden eggs. Not all of Pixar’s ten features have been universally beloved, but even the studio’s disappointing efforts, like 2006’s Cars, have been treated by critics as mostly worthwhile. Generally speaking, to read reviews of Pixar movies isn’t to see critics wrestling with the question of “Is it good?” but rather “How good is it?” The result creates something of a critical paradox. When a Pixar movie earns a rare pan, the studio’s previous successes seem to work against it. Pixar becomes the A-plus student who suffers a C-minus grade for turning in B-plus work. It becomes the victim of a masterpiece-or-else set of expectations, thus making critical takedowns seem annoyingly nitpicky or pathetically contrarian (yep, that’s an Armond White reference). At the same time, however, when Pixar delivers something that’s truly and utterly magnificent, any praise heaped upon it seems empty. Gushing reviews of a Pixar movie come off like testimonials on the joys of army life written by soldiers in the North Korean military.
I mention all of this because it helps to illustrate how troubling it can be to have critical conversations about Pixar movies. When someone tells me Finding Nemo is “great,” do they mean “It’s a great piece of family entertainment with something for everyone,” or do they mean “It’s on my short list of the greatest cinematic experiences of all time, tied with Taxi Driver”? I can never tell if I’m supposed to be grading on a curve, if I’m supposed to be comparing Monsters, Inc. to just Dreamworks’ Shrek or instead to There Will Be Blood and anything else. If I tell you that I found Cars to be tedious when I saw it on DVD at the age of 30, is that a valid assessment, or am I supposed to analyze the movie through the eyes of the 10-year-old for which it is intended? Why is it that if I tell people I found Toy Story cute but not special, I get wide-eyed looks like I’ve just insulted the 9-year-old in the school play for not being Meryl Streep?
These are issues we can cover over the course of our conversation, but for now all of that is setup for this: I absolutely adore Ratatouille and I have a fondness for A Bug’s Life and Up, but at the top of the Pixar heap is WALL-E. This is the one Pixar movie that, while by no means flawless, I can call great without any hesitation or qualifiers. To me, it is a masterpiece, and not just of its genre. Of all the films I saw last year, there was a small handful that shared its company, but not a single one that was better. Ed, you hadn’t seen WALL-E prior to this conversation, citing little interest in the Pixar series. My question to you now isn’t if WALL-E is as good as I just described. Instead it’s this: Is WALL-E better than you expected, a notable Pixar achievement, or is it just more of the same?
Ed Howard: You’ve pinpointed some of my own problems with talking about Pixar, namely the difference between “great” (full stop) and “great for children’s entertainment.” Anybody who says that Pixar makes great, fun children’s movies is on pretty safe ground, but there seem to be a lot of critics and fans who make rather more grandiose claims about Pixar, and especially about WALL-E. You yourself have picked it out as not only the best Pixar film, but the best film of its year. A.O. Scott called it “a cinematic poem” full of “wit and beauty,” and compared it to Werner Herzog, of all people. Joe Morgenstern said it left him “speechless,” then went on to deem it “a love letter to the possibilities of the movie medium.” For Fernando F. Croce, it conjured feelings of humanity’s “existential smallness” in the world, again warranting comparisons to Herzog’s documentary Encounters at the End of the World.
In this context, I hate to find myself most closely in agreement with Armond White, but I’m afraid I have to be the grumpy contrarian in the room. To answer your question, WALL-E is about what I expect from Pixar, albeit with perhaps some added ambition elevating it over earlier efforts. It is, in spurts, charming, funny, entertaining, poetic, witty and visually graceful. There is much to admire here, much to praise, and I can certainly see the basis for the accolades that have been heaped upon it. There are sequences and images of real beauty and potency here. In these isolated moments, WALL-E truly is great, and not just great for a kids’ movie. At the same time, I feel like these odes to WALL-E’s greatness are necessarily selective, ignoring the film’s infantilizing aesthetic of cuteness, its tendency to condense its action into jaunty montages, and especially its tremendous downward spiral after the first hour, when an amusing tale of robot love gives way to a polemical fable with awkwardly animated human blobs.
So, while I’m sure this will be a controversial and unpopular opinion, I can’t say that WALL-E (or Ratatouille, which I actually like slightly better) has drastically changed my perception of Pixar. The studio consistently produces enjoyable movies, and it is at the cutting edge of computer animation. I like that they consistently use their extraordinarily sophisticated technology towards real aesthetic ends, rather than simply showing off the latest effects and tricks they’ve picked up. Their movies, for the most part, have obvious ambition and smarts. Sometimes, though, I feel like people are giving them credit just for that, regardless of whether or not their ambition actually pays off in full.
JB: I agree with you on the last part, and we also see eye to eye on the strength of the first half of the film compared to the second. Indeed, as you have somewhat implied, I find that Ratatouille is more consistently pleasing than WALL-E, and so for me selecting one favorite over the other is kind of a Sophie’s choice. But about this I have no doubt: Pixar has never been better than it is over WALL-E’s opening forty-five minutes. That first act is so strong, so rich, so moving that it makes up for a mostly lackluster second half in which the dancing sequence, EVE’s rescue of WALL-E in the trash hanger, the bitingly hilarious “Also sprach Zarathustra” sound cue and the final poignant rebooting of WALL-E make for rare highlights among material that is otherwise disappointingly uninspired, with its baby-like human blobs, overly frenetic action and too-frequent ogling of the spaceship Axiom’s expansive interior.
That said, am I being too lenient here? Am I being too selective in calling the film an outright masterpiece? To a degree, maybe. But at the same time I’m reminded of your reaction to the lengthy opening scene in Inglourious Basterds, when you suggested that had the film ended after Shosanna’s sprint into the woods you would have left the theater satisfied. “It just feels so complete, so self-contained, like a perfect short story,” you said of that incredible opening scene at the dairy farm. Now, I grant you that the opening chapter of WALL-E isn’t quite so self-contained. And I admit that WALL-E’s second half includes nothing anywhere near as powerful as the thrills of its first half, whereas Inglourious Basterds eventually follows the tense sequence at the dairy farm with the one in the tavern that’s (almost) equally good. Nevertheless, those opening forty-five minutes of WALL-E lift the movie to such great heights that they eliminate the possibility of it crashing back down to earth, even if it does descend. So, yes, I’m being a bit selective by calling the movie an unqualified masterpiece, if that implies perfection from start to finish. Then again, if you asked me to nominate my favorite 45-minute spans of cinema over the past decade, WALL-E would be on the same short list as Inglourious Basterds. I find it wholly satisfying.
EH: Maybe, if I felt like you that the opening forty-five minutes of WALL-E were “wholly satisfying,” I’d be more willing to forgive the obvious flaws in the rest of the film. The fact is, though, that while the opening, near-silent scenes are undoubtedly Pixar’s finest achievement thus far, they also suggest the problems that will become harder to ignore throughout the film’s second half. One of these problems is the cloying cuteness in the representation of the titular robot, who at one point actually falls into a pose like a dog begging, his “paws” held up in front of his chest, as he watches the musical Hello, Dolly! on a TV set. I get it, it’s a kids’ movie, there’s going to be a certain degree of sentimentality, but I find moments like that distracting rather than moving: it’s too openly manipulative. I’m much more admiring of the moments when WALL-E’s characterization is achieved subtly, through low-key humor, rather than through this kind of sap: The scene where he can’t decide where to categorize a spork in his filing system, or the one where he runs over his cockroach pal and has a horrified reaction until the little guy recovers.
My bigger problem with the opening scenes is the tendency to reduce everything to a time-lapse montage. It’s almost always a sign of a lousy movie when important events are conveyed through this kind of fast-paced, shorthand—think of the inevitable and endlessly parodied training montages in stuff like the Rocky series. It’s easy to miss, because it’s a near-silent story about a robot, that so many of the opening scenes in WALL-E are handled in a similar manner. The scenes of WALL-E motoring around the empty planet are edited together in a disjunctive way, with little sense of continuity, giving the whole sequence a choppy feel with sweeping tracking shots that cut off before their natural movement is done, as though director Andrew Stanton is afraid to really embrace the Kubrickian long shots of his cinematic inspirations. The technique becomes even more obvious once WALL-E’s love interest EVE arrives, at which point we get not only a falling-in-love montage in which WALL-E stalks the sleek, iPod-like newcomer, but then a more melancholy “break-up” montage after she shuts herself down and gets carted around everywhere by WALL-E. It’s like all of the film’s big narrative beats are delivered through visual and emotional shorthand, rather than allowed to play out naturally. The film spoon-feeds its emotions and ideas to an audience of children, and hey, that’s who it’s intended for. But that means I can only consider it great if, as you suggested above, I grade on a curve.
JB: That’s an interesting reaction. Though I understand your objection to montages in general, none of WALL-E’s feel like lazy shorthand to me. Or, perhaps more to the point, these montages don’t feel like fast-food filmmaking, like something mindlessly zapped in the microwave. As I see it, the falling-in-love montage artfully establishes WALL-E’s persistence, which is the best way to visually articulate the affections of a robot who lacks the vocabulary necessary to express himself in words. Similarly, the “break-up” montage demonstrates WALL-E’s faithfulness. We know that all of these gestures of camaraderie can’t fit into a single day or week, so each snippet serves as a marker for passing time in a world that is otherwise without change. In a sense, it’s the same effect achieved near the end of Groundhog Day when we discover that Bill Murray’s Phil Conners isn’t just a skilled pianist but has managed to pick up ice sculpting, too. We can call this shorthand, sure, because that’s what it is. But isn’t there more depth and art in WALL-E’s approach than there would be if Stanton thrust us forward in time with one cut and an intertitle reading “5 Years Later”?
Thus, I tend to look at these montages from a different angle: Any old filmmaker can have characters tell us how they feel. WALL-E shows us. It has some help, of course, from Hello, Dolly! tunes and Louis Armstrong’s rendition of “La Vie en Rose.” But although Roger Ebert bemoaned the use of pop tunes as moody emotion evokers in his 1969 review of Midnight Cowboy, suggesting the tactic to be an unfortunate aftereffect of The Graduate, the reality is that music of some kind or another has been used to support the cinema’s on-screen action since the silent era. Sure enough, what we have here is a resurrection of silent era techniques, with WALL-E frequently approximating Charlie Chaplin. I understand why you see cloying sentimentality in WALL-E’s antics, as if they are the marshmallows in the cereal bowl, designed to appease the young sugar-hungry crowd. But I look at WALL-E and see “The Tramp,” and there’s no shame in that. This isn’t simply manipulative. It’s classic, too.
That’s why my biggest objection to those initial forty-five minutes would be in regard to those Axiom ads featuring a grating Fred Willard that are as blatant as omniscient narration, thereby betraying the movie’s show-don’t-tell spirit. (Not to mention that the audience young enough to require such explanation would probably find the Axiom ads too confusing to be helpful.) But, believe it or not, this gives us another reason to go back to Inglourious Basterds. That’s a film that cuts away from the action to give us a mini documentary on the flammability of nitrate film stock. That’s a film that is sometimes as subtle as a baseball bat to the skull. That’s a film that at times spoon-feeds its audience, replacing child-aimed cuteness with adult-aimed violence. As you know, I adore both of these films. And I want to make it clear that I don’t think it’s mandatory that all moviegoers be moved by all genres. I have very little interest in horror, for example, and so if these family-minded entertainments don’t satisfy your palate, that’s a fair and honest reaction. Still, it’s interesting that family-friendly movies are often faulted for being faithful to the interests of their younger audiences when more “mature” pictures are often just as manipulative in their approach, just as dumbed-down, just as desperate to play on our emotions.
EH: I guess my main problem, not only with this film but with most “family-friendly” movies, is the over-the-top sentimentality of it all, the way the film makes WALL-E this little avatar of cuteness, staring soulfully into his eyes, which are always tilted at just the right angle to make him look kind of sad and pathetic. He fits in nicely with this culture’s obsession with cuteness, the desire to provoke an “awww” response—the pandering here isn’t as obvious as the little wide-eyed alien kid in District 9, but it still grates on my nerves. Why do we have to talk down to our kids this much? Or is this stuff actually there for the adults in the audience, who need adorable protagonists to really appreciate a film? (And hey, I realize the problem isn’t limited to animated films or kids’ films: Look at how “adorable” most of our movie stars are. Many mainstream, supposedly adult films are just as sentimental, just as cloying and obvious. I don’t go to see Sandra Bullock romantic comedies, either.)
A little spoon-feeding is OK, if there’s something underneath, if there are layers of subtlety beyond the surface, as I think we both agreed there were with the Tarantino film. With WALL-E, I feel like the surface is all there is. It puts everything it has right out there, and an adult audience grasps it immediately, and then that’s it. There’s nothing to dig into here because the film is all sleek surfaces and easy-to-digest emotions. I mean, it’s gorgeous animation, at least before the humans arrive in the second half. All those shining, reflective surfaces bend and throw back light in interesting ways; Pixar even hired the cinematographer Roger Deakins as a consultant, specifically to advise them about the ways in which real light works in a non-animated film. That realism shows through in scenes like the one where EVE holds up a cigarette lighter to her face, or where a scene from Hello, Dolly! is reflected in WALL-E’s glassy eyes, or where the two robots sit together watching a fiery conflagration after EVE blows up a beached boat.
This is gorgeous stuff, no doubt about it, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the film’s very real visual pleasures. I just feel like the opening scenes are designed to show this stuff off and it comes off like a series of disconnected but dazzling shots. I actually think that, in light of this sentimentality, the film is better when it sticks to gags, like the ones I already mentioned above or the sequence where WALL-E gets crushed beneath a pile of runaway shopping carts, demonstrating his persistence, as you mention. But as fine and compelling as the film is at times like this, it doesn’t really hold together. There’s too much preventing me from committing wholly to its vision—and we haven’t even gotten to the disastrous second half yet.
JB: “Disastrous” might be too strong a word to describe the second half (I prefer “uninspired”), but I’m glad you used it, because the bleak, yes, disastrous mise en scène of the opening half is what demonstrates that WALL-E is interested in far more than adorability and digital dazzle. After all, WALL-E’s cutesy gazes are contrasted by the dystopia that surrounds him. Junk. Rust. Dust. Our civilization has disappeared and left behind a trash heap so excessive that WALL-E’s counterparts have expired trying to clean up the mess. If we concede that WALL-E is purposefully adorable and endearing, mustn’t we also concede that the image of lifeless WALL-E clones, scattered about where they fell in the line of duty, is a haunting one? If this movie were only interested in sentimentality, wouldn’t this dystopia be found on some planet other than our own?
It seems to me that for a film tagged as “family-friendly,” WALL-E must have sparked some incredibly uncomfortable conversations on the ride home from the theater. This is a picture that outright charges us with destroying the planet, with accepting obesity for the sake of convenience and sloth and with becoming so plugged-in that we never look outward beyond our immediate distractions. This isn’t hidden. It’s overt. If you’re an overweight parent sitting in the theater with a giant tub of buttered popcorn on your lap, WALL-E is using you as an example of what’s wrong with society. In fact, it’s essentially comparing your obesity to global warming. There’s nothing “friendly” about that. And so while kids might just latch on to WALL-E’s puppy-dog cuddliness, adults should find this a much more difficult experience to endure. There’s no Nazi-esque villain in this picture (though, yes, there is the HAL 9000 descendent AUTO). Here the evil is us. Wouldn’t you agree that this is a rather challenging theme for any movie, never mind a family-friendly one?
EH: I’d agree; WALL-E tackles a challenging theme. As I suggested above, if ambition was enough, Pixar would really be worthy of all the praise that gets heaped upon their films almost without fail. I’m not so inclined to go handing out A’s for effort, though. The film’s theme is certainly adult, and to the extent that it serves as a wakeup call for ecological waste and environmental destruction, WALL-E is an admirable “message movie.” At the same time, in its efforts to mingle such high-concept ideas with cutesy entertainment, the film gets itself tied up in knots and does, as you say, wind up equating (or conflating) global warming, obesity, technological dependency and consumerist mania. Its mean-spirited portrayal of humanity as a race of isolated, idiotic, ludicrously obese slugs isn’t so much an intelligent commentary on “convenience and sloth” as a nasty jeremiad that ridicules fat people. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but jokes about people so obese they can’t even stand up aren’t really the height of satire in my opinion. Among other things, the film encourages kids to laugh when really fat people fall out of their chairs. Ha? This stuff is on the same level as Michael Moore’s manipulative swipes at conservatives—possibly amusing if you sympathize with the message, as I basically do in both cases, but not exactly sophisticated, either as art or as politics.
Anyway, yes, the film’s first half does present a vision of ecological devastation that’s very much at odds with the cuddly depiction of WALL-E himself. Picking up on your citation of all those ruined, non-functioning robots strewn around, one of my favorite moments is a little gag that the filmmakers chose to soft-pedal, perhaps because it would’ve been too morbid for the kiddies. There’s a quick scene early on where WALL-E notices that his treads are getting worn. He stops by a fallen robot and then there’s a jump cut to his newly replaced treads motoring along. It instantly reminded me of a ubiquitous scene that appears in many war movies or films about poverty, where a downtrodden man finds a corpse and takes the opportunity to strip off its boots, replacing his own with somewhat nicer ones. That’s basically what WALL-E does here, though it happens so fast and is glossed over so quickly that it’s easy to miss. And honestly, I can’t decide if I actually like the scene as-is or not. I feel like, because this is a “family-friendly” movie, any attempts to make sophisticated jokes like this are necessarily compromised, that the filmmakers held back from making this scene too explicit, from driving home the parallels to the movie convention they’re obliquely referencing. Because what’s actually happening is depressing, too depressing for the kiddies in the audience, certainly: WALL-E is scavenging bits and pieces from the dead “bodies” of his peers.
Watching this scene, I have this internal tension between just trying to watch and enjoy what is, essentially, a children’s movie, and simultaneously processing these ideas and scenes that clearly have no place in a traditional children’s movie. What does it mean that this cute, cuddly robot who is so deliberately sentimentalized in some scenes is in others portrayed, however indirectly, as a battlefield scavenger? I mean, I get it, the filmmakers are intentionally aiming over the heads of the kids, giving the parents (and the critics, not incidentally) something to appreciate. But at the same time, why can’t we just let a kids’ movie be light and entertaining? I’m a big advocate of not talking down to kids, of giving them some credit for intelligence and the capacity for independent thought, but Pixar’s approach is pretty much the opposite of that, balancing between mindless jokiness for the kids and hammering social commentary for the adults. Do we actually feel like our kids are learning something by sitting them in front of this? Does it make us feel better to get some finger-wagging polemical Brussels sprouts with our sugary entertainment? I submit—and I realize this will be a controversial opinion—that Pixar’s ambitions can be counterproductive to the things that they truly do well. WALL-E most closely approaches greatness when it’s channeling the silent comedy of Chaplin, or when it’s basking in the wonder of its digital beauty, and it’s at its nadir when it verges into preachy and condescending polemics aimed at the audience’s overweight parents rather than the kids who are supposedly the film’s audience.
JB: Obviously I disagree, not with everything you said but with the larger idea that Pixar’s ambitiousness is counterproductive. I suppose that in defense of your argument one could aptly point to Ratatouille, which has the kind of lightweight moralizing that we expect from a family picture while remaining for the most part a simple story about friendship that’s made powerful by some tremendous animation. (It doesn’t get lost in allegory.) But I’d counter that argument with Finding Nemo, a picture so simplemindedly sweet that it’s only as interesting as its visuals and thus is often boring, and also The Incredibles. The critical acclaim for the latter movie, directed by Brad Bird, has perplexed me since it was released. Often I see The Incredibles hailed as some sort of potent meditation on the midlife identity crisis, which it is for about twenty minutes. After that, faster than WALL-E leaves Earth for the Axiom, The Incredibles trades in its moody office interiors for the squeaky polish of a superhero yarn that’s lackluster thematically, dramatically and visually. Indeed, as its fans readily suggest, The Incredibles might have been a step in the right direction in terms of the thematic maturation of the Pixar franchise, but it was a very small step. By comparison WALL-E is a leap.
And so I contend that the second half of WALL-E wouldn’t feel nearly so “uninspired” or “disastrous” if it were true that Pixar is better off avoiding “hammering social commentary” in favor of settling for “mindless jokiness” and digital wonder. Sure enough, though its vision of American obesity is satirically biting, over its second half WALL-E too frequently becomes the thing it preaches against—a display of empty, hyperactive flash. For each minute of divine beauty, like those of the dancing sequence between WALL-E and EVE, there are two minutes filled up by hyperactive robots zipping to and fro, with lots of cutaways to ogle the Axiom’s Vegas-like interior. If this fails to thrill, part of the reason is because there’s no gravity to it, no heft. Indeed, I’d rather that Pixar try to teach me something, try to make me think, because that’s what separates WALL-E from the mind-numbing spectacle that is Michael Bay’s Transformers, for one.
On top of that, I wonder if the best way to bring about change in adults isn’t to circumvent their defenses by appealing to their softer side. As Jim Henson understood, a moralizing message is difficult to dismiss when it is delivered by a character whose naked earnestness disarms us. I don’t know if kids are learning anything from the finger-wagging polemics, but the adults should be. I see WALL-E as akin to Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree in that its truly haunting power is reserved for those who are old enough not to need the lesson.
EH: See, I think The Incredibles is quite possibly an even better example of what I’m talking about than WALL-E—polemical sloganeering in the guise of a family entertainment, though in this case I’m much more suspicious of the message than I am of the ecological awareness cheerleading of WALL-E. This simple superhero tale, which borrowed liberally from Alan Moore’s Watchmen and Marvelman before the former was adapted to film by Zack Snyder, has a not-so-buried Randian/Nietzschean subtext, one I’m hardly the only person to pick up on. It’s a blunt critique of modern education and child-rearing and the liberal emphasis on equality. It’s a parody of the “everyone is special” ethos, mocking modern society for suppressing difference in favor of uniformity. As speedster Dash says, “everyone is special” is just “another way of saying no one is.” The film is driven by the idea that exceptional individuals shouldn’t be forced to “fit in,” which is the Objectivist idea at the core of Ayn Rand novels like The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. (Indeed, visual references to Atlas himself abound, from Mr. Incredible’s battle with a globe-shaped robot to the Art Deco statue, a relative of the Atlas standing in Rockefeller Center, that appears in the background of an Olympian home.) Rand’s particular brand of individualism is of course a natural fit for superhero stories, which is probably why everyone from Moore to Spider-Man creator Steve Ditko (who created two Objectivist superheroes, The Question and Mr. A) has dealt with her ideas in their comics.
The Incredibles, in nodding to this lineage, winds up falling in line with the withering contempt displayed for ordinary humanity in WALL-E as well. The villain, Syndrome, is a sniveling “mediocrity,” that über-Randian word, an object of pity and hatred for the super-powered characters. Syndrome, unfortunate enough to have been born without powers, is forced to make himself superior by inventing tons of incredible technology—and this makes him pathetic, I guess, because he’s not simply naturally gifted like the Incredible family. The film’s ultimate message winds up being almost fascist, an endorsement of inherent (genetic?) superiority. Of course, this idea comes wrapped up in the phrasing that you should accept what you are, which is a totally ordinary message for a kids’ movie like this. But when you really think about it, what the film is actually saying is that some people are naturally better than others, that there’s this caste system of human prowess, and that those who are born less gifted should also accept what they are, should not strive to be any better, to lift themselves above their “natural” station. Syndrome is a villain because he dared to want to be better than his birthright. Okay, so on the surface it’s just an animated adventure—and you’re right, not an especially great one—but it also doubles as this weird apologia for right-wing philosophies.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying that Pixar should concentrate on making more movies like Finding Nemo, and I’m certainly not advocating for more “mindless jokiness.” I just think that the studio’s recent films have been over-praised for having “ideas” without anybody really bothering to examine what those ideas are, or how they’re integrated into the films. The answer, in my opinion, is that the ideas in these films are blunt and overly broad and in some ways rather contemptuous towards human possibility, and that they’re awkwardly grafted onto films that remain lighthearted entertainments at heart. When I think about the scenes I like in WALL-E’s uneven second half, the standouts are the dance sequence, the scene where WALL-E playfully fucks with that little cleaner robot by deliberately leaving grease spots on the ground, and the diagrammatic from-above shots that recall the formalism of Richard McGuire’s McSweeney’s comic strip “ctrl,” an obvious visual and thematic reference point for the Axiom scenes. There’s heart and energy to spare in these films, but I really don’t think any of the Pixar directors have yet figured out a way to harness their ambition to wholly satisfying films, films that don’t sacrifice the lighter qualities of Pixar’s approach.
JB: I see your point. To double back to the Randness of The Incredibles for a moment: I’ve always found its philosophies easy to ignore—blunt though they are—because I just don’t buy them. Not as presented here, I mean. Indeed, as your description suggests, the presentation of the Incredible family as contrasted with Syndrome would suggest that we should know our place and stick to it. But the movie twists this logic by populating its film with gifted characters, from the solemn Violet to the gopher-like superhero-suit designer Edna Mole, which has the effect of conning the audience into believing that Dash is wrong—that everyone is special (not mediocre) and that the crime is when we settle for less than our innate best. Innate would be the key word there, and that would explain Syndrome’s sins. But this deconstruction is never wholly satisfying even when it works on paper. Bird’s movie is inconsistent as to whether the Incredibles are us or instead are shining examples of what we should aspire to be—not that we should aspire too hard, because then we make Syndrome’s mistake and, oh, never mind.
I can’t disagree with the notion that Pixar has yet to make a film that is wholly satisfying and also thematically challenging. As I suggested earlier, Ratatouille is the former but not the latter, and perhaps that proves your point. Except I still contend that the Pixar films are at their best when they attempt to provoke adults and not just kids. I do find the images of Bob Parr (Mr. Incredible) squished into his cell of a cubicle labyrinth to be genuinely poignant. I do find the dystopia of WALL-E’s opening half to be more disturbing than that of, say, Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men. This is subjective, of course, but all of this leads me to believe that Pixar needs to become more daring, not less. Maybe over time what we’ll discover is that WALL-E falls into a transitional period when Pixar was testing its limits on its way to being something more. But I have doubts. The purchase of Pixar by notoriously conservative Disney in 2006, several years after Stanton began work on WALL-E, makes me doubt that a more provocative movie will be released by Pixar anytime soon. I hope I’m wrong.
But for now that’s boring industry talk. Let’s get back to the art. In fact, let’s talk about the artwork. Personally, it took until Ratatouille before I came to believe that digital animation was being used in such a way that it actually exceeded the traditional cel animation (2D) of classics ranging from 1937’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves to 1994’s The Lion King. But I assume you’ll agree with me that over the past decade-plus the animation of these pictures has significantly improved—and I’m not just talking about the amount of information packed into each pixel—so that now these worlds don’t just look more three-dimensional but actually exist more three-dimensionally. Or am I wrong?
EH: No, I think you’re right. The quality of 3D animation has been steadily improving, and this has been very apparent in the environment design of Pixar’s recent features. The Incredibles looks good, but even Bird’s next film, Ratatouille, made just three years later, is a big leap ahead of it in terms of the level of detail and nuance this animation is capable of. Check out the storybook opening of Ratatouille, that tracking shot in on a country house on a rainy evening. That one simple shot is packed with detail, from the blended colors on the leaves in the foreground to the texture of the rain to the uneven tiling on the house’s roof, which looks almost startlingly real. There are shots in this film where I forget I’m even watching an animated film, which is certainly a compliment to the technical skill behind the animation. True, there are still moments when the animation isn’t quite as convincing—the restaurant’s kitchen is a bit too slick and smooth for my tastes—but for the most part this film looks stunning, as does Stanton’s WALL-E of course.
At least, the environment design does. I have to admit I’m less enamored of Pixar’s design of human characters, which are very plastic: the people in Pixar’s films inevitably look like they’ve been sculpted from the same raw materials as the backgrounds, which of course they have. For that reason, I don’t agree with you that Pixar’s animation has surpassed traditional cel animation quite yet, if it ever will. The people in The Incredibles and Ratatouille have some personality and style—not so much in WALL-E, with its blob-like piles of flesh—but there’s something disconcertingly artificial about them, like watching action figures move around. They lack the cartoony style of the classic cartoons, like the Looney Tunes shorts, but they’re also not quite realistic either; they’re in this netherworld where they’re not really stylized enough to be satisfying as cartoons, and not realistic enough to truly mimic reality.
Little Remy the Rat, on the other hand, is a satisfying cartoon, with a rubbery versatility that gives him some style and personality that’s not always as apparent in the human characters. This is why Ratatouille, which I consider Pixar’s best (or at least most consistently good) film so far, is itself best in the scenes that take place from a rat’s perspective. These scenes have a certain ground-level intimacy and energy, with the camera frequently hovering behind the head of a rat, looking up at a human-proportioned world. There’s a frenzied pace to the near-slapstick chase sequences in this film, like Tom & Jerry or the Looney Tunes mice cartoons. I also appreciate the rat’s tour of Paris interiors that Remy gives us towards the beginning of the film, scurrying through walls and catching just glimpses of human activity below, like the couple who go from a gun standoff to an embrace or the silhouetted girl putting on makeup for an evening out. I admire the way scenes like this blend verisimilitude and stylization.
JB: Me too. And before I move forward I want to point out that I’m still a huge fan of traditional cel animation, and I wish it hadn’t taken Disney so long to get back to it. (The Princess and the Frog is set to hit theaters this December.) That said, I’ve never confused old-school cel animation with live action, and Pixar is reaching that level of sophistication in shots if not always full scenes. In Ratatouille this is true in those opening cottage exteriors or in the brilliant nightscapes of Paris, but it’s also true in smaller, more nuanced scenes. One of my favorite moments in Ratatouille—heck, in the whole Pixar canon—comes when Linguini is looking for a place to stash his new rodent friend and momentarily considers dropping the rat in his pants. This leads to an absolutely priceless reaction shot from Remy that screams “God, please, no!” even though Remy does no more than plead silently with his eyes. I look at that shot and I’m dazzled. I’m dazzled that an animated character would ever be this subdued when most human actors would convey the same emotion by being, well, animated. I’m dazzled that Pixar could create this subtle expression so successfully. And I’m dazzled to remember that Remy isn’t a real four-legged actor in that scene; he sure seems like one.
And then there’s WALL-E, a robot with binoculars for a head and camera lenses for eyes. They say eyes are windows to the soul, and that remains true here. What strikes me about WALL-E is how tangible he seems, especially in his scenes on Earth. I feel like I could reach out my hand and touch him. He pops off the screen the way human actors stand out in one of George Lucas’ Star Wars prequels when they are surrounded by so much computer-generated unreality. It’s extraordinary! Of all the places that cinema has taken me, few places are so knowingly fabricated and yet emotionally real as that little storage unit that WALL-E calls home, filled top to bottom with his trash-heap treasures. I’m tempted to say that those images—including, of course, the signature moment with EVE and the cigarette lighter—feel painstakingly rendered, but that’s not true at all. In actuality they feel effortless, as if the camera is pointed at something real, tangible.
That latter sensation isn’t a mistake, of course. In fact, for all the Pixar images that couldn’t be achieved on a live film set (like, say, following a scurrying rat up a drainpipe), much of the animation remains rooted in traditional filmmaking techniques. WALL-E includes lens flares when the “camera” is pointed toward the sun, for example. And in the scene in which WALL-E is trampled by the runaway shopping carts the image goes out of focus ever so briefly, as if the result of a cameraman’s error while shooting a scene that’s too expensive to restage for a second take. Through these gimmicks, Pixar attempts to seduce us into regarding its action as “Real,” and I’d argue that these little tricks have a greater effect than most of us realize.
However, I agree with you that Pixar’s animation of human characters leaves much to be desired. Ratatouille has perhaps the most creatively rendered human cast, while WALL-E has the least inspired human characters. In WALL-E, I understand what Stanton was going for in making the lethargic passengers of the Axiom look similar to fleshy infants, but that doesn’t eliminate the letdown one feels when transitioning from the detail-rich robots-only opening. It’s as if the animation team tired themselves out working on WALL-E and phoned it in on the other characters. A similar sensation is delivered by this year’s Up, in which three gorgeously wrinkled older characters stand in stark contrast to a younger supporting cast with rounded edges like Weeble Wobbles. I don’t have much doubt that Pixar has the ability to create realistic human characters, but it hasn’t quite happened yet, for whatever reason.
EH: You pick out a lot of great scenes and details there. But while we’ve both been impressed by the realism Pixar often achieves in their most recent features, I do wonder if realism is even what animators should be aspiring to. You say you’ve “never confused old-school cel animation with live action,” and I certainly haven’t either, but is that really such a bad thing? Sure, there’s no mistaking a Disney feature or a Chuck Jones short for reality, but that’s because they’re interested in creating their own stylized cartoon realities, especially in Jones’ more out-there later cartoons like Now Hear This. Maybe it’s my interest in comics and cartooning that makes me feel this way, but I tend to think the best animation is not necessarily that which imitates reality. It’s the same thing in comics. Look at the way, say, Chris Ware, Jaime Hernandez and Kim Deitch draw people: None of them treat the human form in quite the same way, and even Hernandez, the most realistic of the three, is heavily stylized. Good cartooning conveys recognizable emotions and behaviors without actually mimicking reality itself, without trying to fool the eye into thinking it’s seeing a photograph. As animation gets closer and closer to live action, it loses its specifically cartoony virtues, and I think that’s something to mourn, even as I also gape at the meticulously rendered Paris of Ratatouille or the detailed dystopia of WALL-E.
So I’ll ask you, do you think realism is, in itself, a noble goal for animation to work towards? What’s so great about being realistic?
JB: Nothing in and of itself. But several Pixar films suffer from a sort of fashion clash when pseudo-realism shares the screen with those old cartoony virtues. In WALL-E, for example, that cigarette lighter looks like the genuine article while the Axiom’s captain has only slightly more detail and three-dimensionality than a Peanuts character. The result is a stylistic disconnect. One shot suggests actual reality, the other suggests cartoon fantasy. I don’t want to make it sound like these different approaches could never be part of the same film, but often Pixar creates certain expectations in one shot that it isn’t ready to live up to in the next. In fact, sometimes even individual shots clash. In Up, for instance, there’s a scene in which Carl Frederickson has a conversation with a construction foreman voiced by John Ratzenberger. Neither of these characters looks so “real” that these men could be mistaken for live actors, but Carl—whose light bulb nose and square jaw make his cartoon ancestry impossible to miss—possesses a 5 o’clock shadow so bristly that it looks as if it could scratch the screen. By comparison the foreman is a blank, an initial sketch still waiting to be filled in. One character inspires us to look closer, to take pleasure in every digital hair follicle. The other is better off regarded from a distance.
I don’t think Pixar should strive to increase the realism of its artistry from picture to picture, but I do think it benefits Pixar to remain consistently realistic (or not) within each movie. Visually speaking, The Incredibles and Ratatouille do a pretty good job of this. WALL-E and Up, less so. Though I don’t think there would be anything inherently wrong with striving for greater realism here and there, the last thing I want to do is lose the cartoon splendor of, say, the diminutive Chef Skinner and lanky Anton Ego. Ratatouille proves that cartoon virtues and photorealism can be cohesive parts of the same whole. At the same time, there are moments in the Pixar collection when it’s as if Charlie Brown has walked into a Bugs Bunny/Elmer Fudd adventure. At issue isn’t really if one style is better than the other, just that the two styles don’t always match.
EH: Well said. There are ways to make the cartoon/realism dichotomy work—a lot of manga and anime set off cartoony characters against hyper-realistic backgrounds, as does Hergé’s The Adventures of Tintin and Jeff Smith’s Bone—but I don’t think Pixar has managed to achieve this balance. The different styles at work in their films don’t seem like an attempt at creating contrast so much as a failure of inconsistency. These films have huge budgets and utilize state-of-the-art tech: we shouldn’t be seeing images that seem half-finished, as though the details haven’t been sketched in yet. After all, at their best these films display prodigious imagination and visual style, even in stretches that are otherwise lackluster: the second half of WALL-E gives the impression that the animators poured all their energy into the Axiom’s coldly beautiful interiors, often displayed with the patterned formalism of Richard McGuire, while the humans are, as you say, sketches.
Of course, when Pixar’s animators give a sequence or a setting their all, the results are jaw-dropping. We’ve already stressed how visually exciting Pixar’s animation can be at its peak, but probably the pinnacle of their visual splendor, for me, is the sequence in Ratatouille when Linguini takes Remy to the river to drown him. The young man rides his bicycle down the foggy streets of Paris, passing by a cathedral whose stained glass windows shine through the thin white haze, casting a diffuse rainbow glow into the air. It’s realistic, in one sense, but also almost too beautiful to be real. The whole sequence is ethereal and melancholy, and that one image stands out as possibly the loveliest Pixar has crafted to date. It’s especially affecting because it’s not just empty spectacle, but enhances the mood and emotions at the heart of the scene.
It’s because of scenes like this that Ratatouille, with its simple, formulaic storyline and its earnest emotional core, is the one Pixar film I can really get behind, at least as an example of the studio’s capacity for charming, well-crafted family entertainment. On the other hand, even this rather light film contains a faint echo of the Randian, anti-human Incredibles: Note that Linguini never does learn to cook, and instead eventually accepts his natural calling as a waiter. What’s striking about Pixar’s recent films (though I haven’t seen Up) is how little faith they really put in human accomplishment; beneath all the cutesy flourishes and gorgeous imagery, they’re very cynical films, especially for children’s fare. Ratatouille is about being driven to succeed, about doing what one is best at, but as in The Incredibles the film is really about one naturally gifted being and the mediocrities surrounding him. Talent is viewed as innate; Remy doesn’t even really need to work very hard to be a good chef, he just seems to know what to do because he has a superior sensibility. It’s merely a subdued undercurrent in this film, but it’s still troubling as an indication of Pixar’s larger ideas.
JB: Indeed, the moral messaging in Pixar films doesn’t always add up, which just goes to show how much Pixar assumes that audiences will identify with its main characters, coming away from The Incredibles and Ratatouille with the urge to be all that we can be and ignoring the suggestion that all that some of us can be is mediocre. In that way WALL-E is a little different. We might identify with WALL-E’s desire for companionship, but mostly the trash-compacting robot serves as an escort to view our future selves. He’s a mechanical Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and we are overweight, nature-killing Scrooges. The images of this future are haunting right out of the gate—those wind turbines, erected far too late, now buried in junk—and are bluntly critical of our current level of conservational (in)activity.
Some of WALL-E’s detractors suggested that this vision of the future is too bleak for a movie aimed at kids, but what that criticism ignores is how tame and non-threatening Pixar movies tend to be in terms of their presentations of villainy. Just look at their recent pictures: The Incredibles has Syndrome, who seems more misguided than dangerous, in part because we only see the results of his robot-based assassinations. Ratatouille has Chef Skinner and Anton Ego, who are mean more than monstrous. WALL-E has AUTO, just a spaceship mainframe trying to do its job. And Up has Charles Muntz, who is a brave hero turned silver-haired lunatic after years of exile. (Omitted from that list is Cars, in which the only “villain” is the hero McQueen when he doesn’t have his priorities straight.) All those aforementioned characters fill the “bad guy” role, and sometimes deservingly so. But in terms of evil and ferocity none of them match up with the Witch of Snow White, Cruella De Vil of 101 Dalmatians or Scar of The Lion King, just to hand-pick three cartoon baddies. Nor do Pixar movies revel in terrifying darkness as other cartoons do—Pinocchio, Sleeping Beauty or (to go with a non-Disney movie) The Secret of NIMH.
My point is that Pixar has found another way of creating moralizing tales of good triumphing over evil without needing to resort to the old formula in which teaching kids a lesson meant scaring the bejeezus out of them along the way. Whether Pixar’s brand of moralizing is more profound is up for debate, but the studio certainly turns out movies with a lighter spirit than the still-revered Disney classics I was raised on. Yet having said all that I don’t want to pigeonhole Pixar, because if these movies are ever to transcend the “family entertainment” label we need to allow it to happen. Part of that process requires us to demand more of animated films than many of us have in the past. Part of the process requires us to demand less: If David Lynch can be allowed to create films lacking in moral and thematic symmetry, then Pixar’s crew of filmmakers should be allowed to do the same.
One of the best ways to evaluate a film (though certainly not the only way) is to quiet the cynical or hypercritical voices in our head and ask ourselves this simple question: “Am I moved (emotionally, spiritually, cerebrally—however)?” With most Pixar films, my answer would be “No,” or at least “Not much.” But when it comes to Ratatouille and WALL-E, my answer changes. I am moved.
EH: I think this is a great criterion for evaluating a film, or any other work of art for that matter: “Am I moved (emotionally, spiritually, cerebrally—however)?” Yes, there’s more to it than that, but that’s a central question, and criticism is in part the act of exploring those subjective reactions. My own answer, as I’m sure I’ve made clear already, is that Pixar’s output thus far has only moved and affected me in isolated moments, not as a whole experience. Its corporate merger with Disney notwithstanding, Pixar may yet have the capacity to craft a great movie—rather than just a great “family” movie—but so far I agree with you that their films have been variations on typical kids’ movie moralizing, with their own twists on the formula.
Of course, in suggesting that Pixar’s achievements so far are fairly minor in the grand scheme of things, I don’t want to sound like Armond White, who has been notoriously dismissive of Pixar. In his review of Henry Selick’s Coraline, White took the opportunity to trash WALL-E by comparison with the Selick film. It’s a typically cantankerous White piece: I frankly have no idea what he’s even saying with some of his arguments, and I’m not sure why he doesn’t talk more about the film he’s ostensibly reviewing, instead of using Coraline’s supposed greatness as a club with which to beat WALL-E. Even so, he does have a few points worth making buried in there somewhere.
His most salient point, as far as I’m concerned, is his observation that Pixar’s films and others like them “keep animation infantile.” He identifies the accepted wisdom that animated films are for kids as little more than an “industry convention.” There are few times when I’m really comfortable agreeing with the willfully contrarian White, but this is definitely one of them. There’s no reason that we should have to accept that cartoons are just for kids, not with films like Persepolis and the anthology Peur(s) du noir (which boasts a gorgeous short by the multi-talented Richard McGuire, whose comics I’ve referenced a couple of times in relation to WALL-E) demonstrating what can be done with the form when it’s aimed at more sophisticated audiences. It’s been a long time since comics won this particular fight, with artists branching out into telling stories not meant only for children, and I hope that animated films will eventually get to a similar place. It’s about time we stop holding animated films to a lower standard than any other type of film.
JB: That’s exactly right. And yet here’s where I disagree with both you and White: Persepolis didn’t move me as much as WALL-E, nor did Waltz with Bashir, another animated “for-adults” movie that White mentions in his dismissal of the “atrocious” WALL-E. Make no mistake, I was moved (if less so) by both Persepolis and Waltz with Bashir. Both movies are proud tributes to the idea that animation needn’t be reserved for “family cartoons.” At the same time, though, celebrating those films as genre-busting trailblazers reveals an unfortunate truth: We tend to think that “family friendly” and “adult-friendly” are mutually exclusive concepts, even though the terms suggest harmony. And so I ask the Pixar doubters: Must the child-friendly elements of WALL-E—all that sentimental sweetness—be stripped away in order for the film’s more intellectual themes to affect me? Why? Why have we, as cinephiles, created this idea that animated films can’t thoroughly thrill kids and adults simultaneously? Jim Henson managed to do that with regularity using puppets on The Muppet Show, and in my opinion WALL-E achieves a similar balance, if not in every scene.
That said, I concede that WALL-E’s generally ecstatic critical response must have been boosted by the modest expectations of critics who were stunned to be so genuinely entertained. As White suggests, it’s probably true that critics pigeonholed WALL-E as infantile fare, rather than approaching digital animation as a “legitimate art form,” and then “illogically praised the film for transcending” those modest boundaries. But if that’s true, couldn’t it also be true that adult skepticism for family-friendly pictures is so engrained that WALL-E will never get its just due? Ed, you’re an open-minded movie lover, but could you give WALL-E or the next Pixar release the benefit of the doubt that you might afford a problematic first viewing of a film by Lynch or Werner Herzog? The easy answer, I know, is to say that Lynch and Herzog have gained your trust in a way that Pixar hasn’t. And that’s fair. But at the same time I’m wondering if the notion that “family friendly” really means “infantile” is so engrained that Pixar would have to do the extraordinary to win over its nonbelievers.
Admiring WALL-E like I do, I admit that I consider White’s desperate trashing of the film to be a badge of honor. Despite a few cogent points here and there, the underlying theme of his review is, as usual, “Other critics said it’s good, so it can’t be.” (White even takes a detour in his assassination of WALL-E via Coraline to slam Pan’s Labyrinth.) My favorite moment of the review is when White, who routinely propagates the notion that we are all mediocrities who should be cowering in the presence of his Mr. Incredibleness, decides that the same savvy consumers who would go on to make WALL-E the fifth-highest grossing movie of 2008 had “pegged WALL-E as no fun” in just three days “despite critical hosannas” to the contrary. White’s proof? Going to a matinee on a no-school Monday after WALL-E’s opening weekend and being one of only three in the crowd. (Apparently White thinks that the pre-teen target audience of WALL-E’s marketing campaign can drive itself to the theater.)
My own theatrical encounters with WALL-E were quite different. About a month after the movie was released I saw it twice within a week. What I noticed the second time around, when I could let my attention shift away from the screen, is that during the climactic moment when EVE waits to find out if she has successfully repaired and rebooted WALL-E, no one in the audience moved. The packed crowd, split evenly between kids and adults, seemed to hold its breath. The result was an exhilarating pure silence like I hadn’t experienced at the theater since making multiple trips to enjoy No Country for Old Men the year before. It was magical. And so as I left the theater, with most of the audience still in their seats, I asked myself, “What reason do I have to doubt or defile the power of this experience?” I couldn’t come up with a reason then and I can’t come up with one now. WALL-E is hardly perfect, I am the first to admit, but it is a masterpiece. I believe that.
Jason Bellamy ruminates on cinema at The Cooler.
Ed Howard chronicles his film viewing at Only the Cinema.
Pixar Week will run October 4—10 at the House. For more information on the event, please see here.
Review: Vivarium Looks Aloofly at the Nightmare of Conformity
This a parable about adulthood boasts deeply cynical takes on home, community, and childrearing.2
Lorcan Finnegan’s high-concept sci-fi mystery Vivarium is a parable about adulthood with deeply cynical takes on home, community, and childrearing. Gemma (Imogen Poots) and Tom (Jesse Eisenberg) are a young couple who one afternoon tour a housing development called Yonder with its sales agent, Martin (Jonathan Aris), who dresses like a Mormon missionary. The colorless subdivision is startlingly homogenous, with identical homes in creepily neat rows (shades of Edward Scissorhands), stretching from horizon to horizon. Martin shows them house “number 9,” then disappears, and when they also try to leave the neighborhood, every road circles back to the house until their car runs out of gas. Yonder is, well, not quite even a maze, because there’s no way out. It’s a trap.
The couple is thus ushered into a nightmare of conformity, emphasized by the film’s production design. The streetscapes, often seen from overhead, are vividly and uneasily artificial, suggesting a model town; even the clouds appear painted onto the sky above. The sound design is deathly quiet except for the echoes of Gemma and Tom’s footsteps, evoking a soundstage. Yonder is a windless place, the ultimate in featureless suburbs that young city dwellers fear, where the air is odorless and the strawberries flavorless. There are no neighbors and no friends, just forced isolation—an extreme form of social distancing.
The couple is coerced into this life in service of the next generation. After trying to burn down house number nine (which just reappears in the morning), they receive a box containing a baby and a message, instructing them to raise the boy in order to be released. It’s as if bringing up children were just a form of forced labor resulting from a mistake—in this case, having toured Yonder. The boy (Senan Jennings) grows at a rate faster than dog years, reaching about seven years old in just 98 days. He screeches when he’s hungry and is otherwise eerily precocious, like a tiny adult; suspiciously observant, he recites his adoptive parents’ spats and quarrels back to them verbatim. He’s terrifying, like some sort of alien spy, and Tom and Gemma despise him, becoming physically and psychologically abusive.
Finnegan and screenwriter Garret Shanley strip away the comforts and niceties we associate with concepts of home and family, as the neighborhood here is a prison, the house a cell, and children are creepy invaders who torment their parents. It’s a fully nightmarish vision of adulting; Tom starts digging a hole in the yard, which consumes his daytime hours, keeping him from his family, as though it were his job—a jab at the meaninglessness of middle-class employment. Stuffing a lifetime into the span of less than a year, the film posits the nuclear family as something you have to submit to or go crazy should you fight against it.
As intriguing as this allegory can be to parse, it weighs down the storytelling. Vivarium, at heart, is populated with stock characters trapped less in a purgatorial suburbia than in a metaphor. Eisenberg invests Tom with his trademark arrogance, which here just makes the character flatly unlikeable. Tom comes off as a schlub, a rotten guardian and an irredeemable partner, yet the film suggests his wife loves him. Poots sells that with a rawer and more nuanced performance, making Gemma hateful yet decent, bitter but loving, trying yet fed-up. Her character is awful, like Tom, but she’s also sympathetic.
Gemma complains that all she and Tom wanted was a home, and she’s told she is home—as though this hellscape is all that a home could be. It’s an indictment of bourgeois living that stings less than it’s meant to. Vivarium is sad, but it’s too removed to be devastating, lost inside itself and its puzzles of meaning. It’s not a drama so much as an intellectual exercise.
Cast: Imogen Poots, Jesse Eisenberg, Senan Jennings, Eanna Hardwicke, Jonathan Aris Director: Lorcan Finnegan Screenwriter: Garret Shanley Distributor: Saban Films Running Time: 97 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Review: Resistance Is an Old-Fashioned Tribute to Marcel Marceau
The film is an old-fashioned and straightforward tale of brave opposition to the Nazi occupation of France.2.5
Writer-director Jonathan Jakubowicz’s Resistance is an old-fashioned and straightforward tale of brave opposition to the Nazi occupation of France whose most potentially intriguing angle becomes its least satisfying dimension. While featuring many familiar elements, including a sarcastically reluctant hero, a mentally unbalanced sadistic villain, and nail-biter last-minute escapes, it’s centered on a character who one doesn’t often see in World War II movies: a Nazi-fighting mime.
The mime in question is Marcel Mangel (Jesse Eisenberg)—he later changed his surname to Marceau—the son of a Jewish butcher living in Strasbourg, France. Tired of wearing a smock and cutting up meat in his father’s shop, he prefers putting on a Chaplin mustache and applying greasepaint to his face in order to clown around in cabarets. His more traditionally minded father, Charles (Karl Markovics), disapproves of Marcel’s creative life, while the audiences who Marcel performs for are clearly more interested in the dancing girls.
This light family drama might seem inappropriate following the gutting opening scene, in which Elsbeth (Bella Ramsey), a young Jewish girl in Munich, sees her parents gunned down during the Kristallnacht pogrom. But the comfortingly low-stakes nature of these early scenes skillfully illustrates the gently melancholic nature of Marcel’s clowning. At the same time, they also establish just how little the future superstar and his community appreciate the extent of the genocidal danger brewing just a few miles away in Germany.
Marcel’s call to arms comes with the arrival of a truckload of Jewish orphans, including Elsbeth. Ransomed from the Nazis, the orphans are put up in a nearby castle and watched over by a troop of somewhat adult-looking Jewish Boy and Girl Scouts. Guilted by his activist brother, Sigmund (Édgar Ramirez), into helping out, and eager to impress the willowy Emma (Clemence Poesy), Marcel uses his clowning to keep the kids entertained.
At this point, with its light comedy and rapturously beautiful Rhone Valley scenery, Resistance runs the clear risk of traipsing into Life Is Beautiful territory. But with the exception of one awkward scene, in which Marcel and Emma dress up as brownshirts and mug buffoonishly while trying to scare the kids into learning how to hide, Jakubowicz mostly steers clear of any unctuous sentimentalizing of responses to genocidal evil.
This determination to keep the story’s focus on the fight against the Nazis becomes clearer once war breaks out, France is occupied, and all Jews in the country have targets on their backs. Now responsible for even more orphans, Marcel and his compatriots relocate to Lyon and join the resistance. Heightening the stakes in Lyon is the presence of Gestapo chief Klaus Barbie (Matthias Schweighofer), a blithe sadist who likes to play the piano while executing people in the drained pool of his luxury headquarters at the Hotel Terminus. While Schweighofer’s portrayal of Barbie as a bright-eyed torture-happy sociopath who always looks on the verge of giggling veers close to movie-villain shtick, the character’s dark presence keeps the immediacy of Marcel’s mission front and center.
Jakubowicz’s strengths as a director become more clear in some of the set pieces staged after the action shifts to Lyon and Marcel’s group has to balance keeping themselves and the orphans alive in France or escaping to Switzerland. Showing a strong feel for crisply capturing the tense and buttoned-down panic of undercover operatives in occupied territory, Jakubowicz also leverages Eisenberg’s skill for simultaneously signaling vulnerability and resolve.
Where Resistance is likely least effective for many audiences is its attempt to portray Marcel as a masterful performer. It’s hard not to think of Richard Attenborough’s pushy and unfunny Chaplin in some of Eisenberg’s energetic but flat scenes performing as a clown or a mime. A couple of these are fairly stiff, particularly one where Marcel clowns to keep the orphans quiet while German soldiers prowl nearby, and another of him miming for a rapt crowd of American soldiers after being introduced by General George Patton (Ed Harris). (While this latter scene is somewhat inexplicable, it appears to have actually happened, following Marcel’s work for Patton as a liaison officer—a phenomenal pairing of sunny-gruff personalities that seems worthy of its own film.) In most other aspects, however, Resistance functions as a handsomely mounted biopic that tells a little-known story with considerable passion.
Cast: Jesse Eisenberg, Clemence Poesy, Édgar Ramirez, Bella Ramsey, Géza Röhrig, Matthias Schweighofer, Karl Markovics, Ed Harris Director: Jonathan Jakubowicz Screenwriter: Jonathan Jakubowicz Distributor: IFC Films Running Time: 121 min Rating: R Year: 2020
Review: Atlantis’s Future Vision Grapples with a Past That Never Was
The film’s use of scale to drive home the absurdity of its characters’ actions recalls Werner Herzog’s tragicomic existentialism.3
The use of apocalyptic settings has become so prevalent in fiction over the past couple of decades, perhaps more than in any time since the Cold War era, that it seems difficult to find new ways to make the concept resonate. This is particularly true as the real world starts to resemble a uniquely mundane version of the most vivid renderings of dystopia. Atlantis, Ukrainian director Valentyn Vasyanovych’s fourth feature-length fiction film, succeeds in part because the situation it depicts is barely even fictional.
Vasyanovych was inspired to make the film by a visit to the Donbass region in the eastern part of his home country, which is the site of regular clashes between government troops and pro-Russian separatists, and which has been left environmentally ravaged due to the war there. Atlantis is set in an imagined 2025, five years after the war has ended, with the Donbass area no longer fit for human habitation—as will likely be the case in reality.
Sergiy (Andriy Rymaruk) and Ivan (Vasyl Antoniak) are PTSD-addled ex-soldiers who fought and killed for a place that wasn’t worth saving, and who are under no illusions of finding a better life elsewhere. They now work at a steel mill that’s about to fall victim to the same capitalist whims they were defending as part of the victorious pro-Western forces. A glimmer of hope is eventually offered by a volunteer group that drives around the region picking up the bodies of those who fell in the war, to identify them and provide them with proper burials.
Despite the film’s basis in current geo-political and economic realities and its obvious parallels with the broader climate crisis faced by the world, it rarely engages directly with these themes. Instead, it’s more interested in how people adjust to desperation and scarcity, showing a society where armed conflict and corporate neglect have poisoned the environment and devalued human life to such an extent that people aren’t even able to grieve their losses. Vasyanovych employs long takes with almost no camera movement, combining naturalistic lighting with pictorial framing and a relatively large depth of field. As well as affording the time and space to appreciate the routines of their hardscrabble existence, this striking aesthetic serves to distance the viewer from the characters, showing these stoical figures alienated from themselves as much as they’re dwarfed by desolate industrial landscapes.
The unrelenting bleakness of this situation often becomes almost cartoonish in proportion, and the film’s slow pace occasionally conjures a tone of deadpan humor. An early scene sees Sergiy and Ivan setting up a row of life-sized dummies in the snow for shooting practice, and the depiction of this task in real time, with their truck’s engine running conspicuously in the background throughout, draws out the childish inanity of their adherence to military discipline. Later, a 1984-aping scene of assembled workers being informed of their impending redundancy by a face on a giant projector screen, with an interpreter’s Ukrainian translation disrupting the flow of this British company executive’s ruthless corporate-speak, wouldn’t be out of place in a more straightforward work of political satire.
The film’s use of scale to drive home the absurdity of its characters’ actions sometimes calls to mind Werner Herzog’s tragicomic existentialism, as well as early silent cinema. In a feat of resolve and improvisation that would make Fitzcarraldo proud (not to mention Charlie Chaplin’s shoe-eating tramp from a similarly barren locale a century prior), Sergiy cobbles together a hot tub for himself in the middle of the wasteland, filling a large digger’s bucket with water from a hose and burning petrol-soaked timber underneath it for heat. His soak in this makeshift bath is Atlantis’s most indelible image, a sight gag that also underlines his stubborn but admirable commitment to making a home where few other people dare to stay.
Appropriately for a study of humans physically engulfed by their surroundings, Atlantis is bookended by shots apparently captured with a thermal imaging camera. Initially coming across as gimmicky, representative of a broader style-over-substance artificiality that prevents the film from reaching the heights of its cinematic forebears, its final use is still surprisingly affecting. It highlights two people merging together in the warmth of postcoital intimacy, finding a new sense of belonging in the ruins. They jointly refuse to mourn a lost Atlantis that, given the state of our current reality, likely never existed for them in the first place.
Atlantis premiered last year at the Venice Film Festival and was slated to screen at the now-delayed New Directors/New Films. For sales information, please contact Best Friend Forever.
Cast: Andriy Rymaruk, Liudmyla Bileka, Vasyl Antoniak Director: Valentyn Vasyanovych Screenwriter: Valentyn Vasyanovych Running Time: 106 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Review: Red Moon Tide Is a Haunting Elegy to Nature’s Supremacy
The film is predicated on such ineffable dread that the impact of climate change becomes a sort of Lovecraftian force.3
Lois Patiño’s Red Moon Tide is a work of unmistakable horror, one predicated on such ineffable dread that the impact of climate change becomes a sort of Lovecraftian force. Shots of flooded plains next to stagnant and drying reservoirs capture the contrasting, even contradictory ways that the world is being destroyed by the rippling effects of our hubris. The opening title sequence is a roving close-up of an ancient maritime map dotted with mythical, perilous creatures, and the hypothetical existence of a nautical monster pervades the entire film. Yet the true threats here are invisible, malignant forces of misery that cast a pall over everything, poisoning nature and rendering humans motionless.
Patiño’s extreme long shots conjure unsettling moods through their use of natural backdrops and light. Waves at moonlight crash onto a beach, the ocean as dark as arterial blood. And in a recurring image, we glimpse an inactive hydroelectric dam, its face shot at angles that turn the concrete into a frame-spanning expanse of blank space. The soaked floodplains, meanwhile, fill the air with so much mist that sunlight casts a spectral glow over the Galician countryside.
This is the perfect backdrop for the loose, haunted narrative of a local fisherman, Rubio (Rubio de Camelle), who becomes convinced that a monster is hunting the shores of his coastal town as he discovers more and more human corpses when he takes his boat out each morning. At the start of Red Moon Tide, Rubio’s boat has run around and the man himself is missing, making him a protagonist referenced more than seen as other townsfolk ruminate on whether or not the man’s hunch was right as they themselves sink deeper into malaise.
The town where these locals dwell is shot in even starker terms than the landscapes, evoking Hopper-esque portraits of stasis and alienation. The non-professional actors are arranged like mannequins and frequently silhouetted, distanced from each other and often looking in opposite directions. People rarely speak aloud, instead silently stewing in internal monologues heard in somber voiceovers in which they contemplate the monster, giving it mythological properties such as having its behaviors dictated by the wax and wane of the moon.
Mythology is a crucial element of Red Moon Tide, with a trio of witches appearing nearly a half-hour into the film in search of the missing Rubio. These women spend the remainder of the film roaming around the countryside and the seaside town, often the only people in motion in the frame. Eventually, the witches start to drape the stock-still townspeople in sheets, making them look like ghosts. Rubio himself, well before he appears on screen, becomes an unwitting Charon figure ferrying the dead when his nets turn up fewer fish than corpses of those slain by the monster, returning their bodies to land for burial.
Buried beneath this mythic text are contemporary anxieties about climate change that gives Red Moon Tide an underlying logic, but the film is at its best when surrendering entirely to its hypnotic imagery. Andrei Tarkovsky is invoked at several junctures, from a shot that studies grass waving like strands of hair in a gently flowing brook to an image that moves through silhouetted trees with mountains in the distance that fittingly reflects the last shot of 1975’s Mirror. The film thus ends with an apocalyptic intensity that gives a climactic confrontation with the lurking monster a feeling of meeting with destiny, of the creature embodying mankind’s accelerating self-destruction in the face of nature reclaiming its supremacy.
Red Moon Tide had its world premiere last month at the Berlin International Film Festival and was slated to screen at the now-delayed New Directors/New Films. For sales information, please contact Lights On.
Cast: Rubio de Camelle, Ana Marra, Carmen Martinez, Pilar Rodlos Director: Lois Patiño Screenwriter: Lois Patiño Running Time: 84 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
Review: Pushpendra Singh’s The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs
The film speaks lyrically to a peoples’ determination to find a meaningful way to live in a rapidly changing modern world.3
Based on a folktale by Vijaydan Detha and further influenced by the life and poetry of 14th-century Kashmiri mystic Lalleshwari, Pushpendra Singh’s The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs tells the story of a young nomadic shepherdess, Laila (Navjot Randhawa), who finds herself exploited by foolish, lustful men. Using traditional folk songs—each revolving around a central idea, such as marriage, migration, and attraction—Singh loosely divides the film into seven parts. Each of these musical interludes—some diegetic, some not—mark a transitionary phase in Laila’s spiritual growth and path to self-realization as she navigates a world that remains indifferent to her own dreams and desires.
After being taken as a bride by a spineless young herdsman named Tanvir (Sadakkit Bijran), Laila migrates, along with their Bakarwal clan, to a more populated area of Kashmir, where we get clear sense of the territorial conflict currently playing out between India and Pakistan. Border police and local officials badger the nomadic shepherds, asking for permits and identification cards that have never before been required of them. This rapid social change limits the mobility of the clan and threatens their way of life, but once they arrive at their destination, it’s talk of Laila’s great beauty that spreads rapidly throughout the land.
As the young woman is met by unwanted advances by the regional inspector (Ranjit Khajuria) and his goofy but somewhat charming subordinate, Mushtaq (Shahnawaz Bhat), she’s left to fend for herself by her feckless husband who constantly kowtows to their authority. Laila uses both her fearlessness and intelligence to protect herself, first pushing and slapping the inspector and, later, fooling Mushtaq time and again by setting up nighttime meetings with him, only to thwart his plans by showing up with Tanvir by her side.
These various nocturnal rendezvous with Mushtaq play out in a repetitious manner, like the episodes of a fable. While Mushtaq is relentlessly aggressive in his pursuit of Laila, Tanvir’s oblivious, overly deferential responses to the increasingly absurd manners in which the man shows up on his land in need of bananas or a sheep are threaded with deadpan humor. When Tanvir calmly says of Mushtaq, “What a kind man. He cares so much for us,” a look of resignation and frustration settles on Laila’s face as she realizes how vulnerable she is and that she alone must cope with the dangers and challenges of her life.
As Laila is further isolated and confronted with her lack of agency, the film draws parallels between her vibrance, toughness, and persistence in the face of oppression and that of the Bakarwal community, who’ve roamed the Kashmir region and maintained their cultural mores there for centuries. The forest is marked early on as not only a space that requires great fortitude in which to survive, but also a realm of potentially fantastical transformation. When Laila’s friend asks her when she began to fear the forest, she replies that she never has and that Lalleshwari “also discovered herself here” and “abandoned everything to find God.”
This proclamation foreshadows Laila’s own journey of self-discovery and enlightenment just as a gorgeous shot in which Tanvir, sitting on a tree stump below his wife, transforms into a sheep alludes to the brief flashes of magical realism that will creep into The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs from time to time. Such poetic scenes are more frequent as the film proceeds, and enhanced particularly by the cinematography, which features slow, roving camerawork that, as in Terrence Malick and Andrei Tarkovsky’s films, exhibits a reverence for and connection to the landscape and the protagonist’s deep connection to it.
In its final minutes, the film becomes increasingly expressionistic, as Laila symbolically sheds her clothes and wanders from the forest into the rocky landscape of the Himalayas. There’s a remarkable visual play between darkness and light and aural juxtaposition of folkloric music (a song of renunciation) and the crashing sounds of thunder as Laila drapes a snakeskin over her shoulder and contemplates her position in life with a pensive stare into a mirror. It’s a stunningly beautiful and mystical passage laden with sorrow, uncertainty, and the inevitability of change. But it also speaks quite lyrically and evocatively to both Laila’s, and, by extension, her peoples’ enduring determination to find a meaningful way to live in a rapidly changing modern world that’s less and less inclined to ensure their survival.
The Shepherdess and the Seven Songs had its world premiere last month at the Berlin International Film Festival and was slated to screen at the now-delayed New Directors/New Films. For sales information, please contact Pascale Ramonda.
Cast: Shahnawaz Bhat, Sadakkit Bijran, Ranjit Khajuria, Navjot Randhawa, Mohammed Yassen Director: Pushpendra Singh Screenwriter: Pushpendra Singh Running Time: 98 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
Review: Blow the Man Down Is a Sharp and Memorable Nautical Noir
The film never veers into wink-wink self-consciousness that its opening might have suggested.3
Bridget Savage Cole and Danielle Krudy’s Blow the Man Down starts on a literally self-aware note. The opening sequence shows the fishermen of a coastal Maine hamlet not just hard at work netting, spiking, and chopping up their catch, but also singing a rousing rendition of the 19th-century sailors’ song that gives the film its title. Full-throated and haunting, the piece is sung right to the camera as though it were a music video for some Americana band. But even though what follows is shot through with a keen understanding of genre necessities and an impatience for wasting more time on them than is necessary, the film never veers into wink-wink self-consciousness that its opening might have suggested.
When we first meet the ghostly pale Priscilla Connolly (Sophie Lowe) and her anxious and messy sister, Mary Beth (Morgan Saylor), they’ve just buried their mother and are trying to extract themselves from the hole she left them in. While Pris takes the need to keep running the family store and the looming loss of the family home somewhat in stride, Mary Beth is furious. Hating their “shithole” town and eager to leave for college, she goes to a bar to blow off steam following their mother’s wake and makes a poorly considered connection with a scuzzily larcenous-looking guy named Gorski (Ebon Moss-Bachrach). Many drinks, some bad driving, a baggie of cocaine, and one well-aimed harpoon later, Mary Beth has a body on her hands and a situation that suggests calling the police would be a poor idea.
Blow the Man Down’s first third or so moves briskly along the well-traveled terrain of the What Do We Do with the Body? genre. Savage Cole and Krudy seed their screenplay with somewhat stock elements, from the sack of cash that causes more problems than it’s worth to the small town rife with hypocrisy to the inexpertly cleaned crime scene with one crucial clue left behind that could send Pris and Mary Beth to prison. But even though some of these narrative beats are highly familiar, the filmmakers handle them with a light touch that keeps things fresh and entertaining until the film throws viewers a neat curveball.
At first, the three tsk-tsking women (June Squibb, Marceline Hugot, and Annette O’Toole) in matching pale Talbots-like outfits who drift through the film appear to be merely a decorative chorus of crones. They’re initially somewhat like the fishermen who come back in from time to time to deliver more bloody-minded sea shanties. But once the women start targeting their disapproval at Enid (Margo Martindale), the apparent proprietor of a cozy old bed and breakfast, the film opens up an entire secret and seamy underbelly to the town that the sisters are about to be pulled right into even if they manage not to be charged with murder.
In between the choral interludes, Blow the Man Down is layered with a discordant and eerie yet also slightly playful soundtrack that enhances both the setting’s chilly isolation and the sisters’ sense of panic and displacement. Overall, the performances are solid, if short of standout, with the great exception of Martindale’s. In her role as the town’s unapologetic scarlet woman, the character actress swings Enid through her scenes, balancing on a cane and fueled by whiskey and a white-hot sense of grievance. “Go back to your casseroles and crochet,” Enid tells the chorus of three old busybodies with a dry and spare tone that pushes the line from petty insult into veiled threat. Without Martindale, Blow the Man Down would be a sharp and tightly constructed nautical noir. With her, it becomes a memorable one.
Cast: Sophie Lowe, Morgan Saylor, Margot Martindale, June Squibb, Marceline Hugot, Annette O’Toole, Gayle Rankin, Will Brittain, Ebon Moss-Bachrach Director: Bridget Savage Cole, Danielle Krudy Screenwriter: Bridget Savage Cole, Danielle Krudy Distributor: Amazon Studios Running Time: 90 min Rating: R Year: 2020
25 Underrated Movie Gems to Stream Right Now on the Criterion Channel
It’s worth taking a dive into the channel’s obscure but vibrant depths.
It’s encouraging that, about a year after its launch, the Criterion Channel remains with us. Less encouraging—from an end-of-days perspective—is that most of us now have an abundance of time to explore it. If self-isolating to prevent the spread of a deadly pandemic has upsides, though, having time enough to poke around the varied corners and depths of the streaming service counts as one of them.
The selection of films on the Criterion Channel rotate quickly, making the films it highlights as “leaving at the end of the month” more vital than most other sites’ similar sections. In a sense, this makes the Criterion Collection’s streaming platform feel more alive than services that have more stable caches and their own in-house content. The new films that pop up at the beginning of the month—in March, the channel has included Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Trilogy of Life and a number of German silents—are akin to special events. The shifting library of films functions like a vast, curated program available in our homes.
The sense that the channel is driven by curation rather than algorithm is no doubt intentional. If, with its esoteric film library and novel programming, the streaming service seems rather offbeat, this is in large part because we’re now used to receiving viewing suggestions from systems that emulate only in outline the mechanism of recommendation. We’ve grown reliant on the facile generic groupings (“drama,” “adventure,” “comedy”) typical of algorithm-driven services. Criterion pointedly ignores genre in favor of auteur, country of origin, or cultural context; a mainstay on the site for several months, amid the controversy over another male-dominated Oscars season, has been its prominent featuring of women filmmakers.
As the Criterion Collection continues to hold on to its niche in an arena dominated by Amazon, Netflix, Disney, among other hopefuls, it’s worth taking a dive into the channel’s obscure but vibrant depths. Many of the films below are rare finds—not only in the world of streaming, but in the era of home video. Pat Brown
Editor’s Note: Click here to sign up for the Criterion Channel.
The Adventures of Prince Achmed (Lotte Reiniger, 1926)
Now justly recognized as the first fully animated feature film, Lotte Reiniger’s masterpiece—composed of cut-out animation of silhouettes on monochromatic painted backdrops—transports us to dreamlike realm. Closely related to the contemporaneous experimentations in animation carried out by figures like Oscar Fischinger and Walther Hans Richter, The Adventures of Prince Achmed lends the orientalist fairy tales it recounts a rhythmic grace. As Prince Achmed journeys through various motifs from the “Thousand and One Nights,” the visual pleasure lies in the reverie of watching the cinema imbue mere shapes with life. Brown
The Ascent (Larisa Shepitko, 1977)
A World War II film in which heroism is a myth, Larisa Shepitko’s The Ascent focuses on two Soviet partisans (Boris Plotnikov and Vladimir Gostyukhin) who are left for dead in the snow-covered Russian countryside. Shepitko’s camera alternates between passages of realism and lyricism, entrenching her characters within a course of almost certain death. If Sheptiko’s soldiers experience only pain at the hands of their merciless German captors, it’s to better articulate the tragedy of their fundamental innocence within the war machine. Clayton Dillard
Asparagus (Suzan Pitt, 1979)
A Jungian psychosexual mescaline trip in the form of an 18-minute animated short, Asparagus is at once a vibrant blast of psychedelia and an unsettling journey into the depths of the subconscious. Suzan Pitt’s film was famously paired with Eraserhead on the midnight-movie circuit back in the late ‘70s, and it’s as equally resistant to interpretation as David Lynch’s classic. Proceeding with a dream logic that recalls the symbolist experimentalism of Maya Deren, Asparagus’s imagery ranges from the lushly verdant to the uncannily profane—often within the same scene, as in the film’s haunting climax in which a faceless woman robotically fellates an asparagus spear. Watson
Begone Dull Care (Norman McLaren and Evelyn Lambart, 1951)
If a jazz combo hired Stan Brakhage to direct their music video, the result might look something like Begone Dull Care. Set to the buoyant bebop of the Oscar Peterson Trio, Evelyn Lambart and Norman McLaren’s zippy animated short is one of the purest marriages of music and image in the history of cinema. Using lines, shapes, and abstract textures painted and drawn directly onto celluloid, the film grooves along to the jazz music—at times using particular colors to represent individual instruments, at others delivering a frenetic freeform visual accompaniment to the music, but always delivering a dazzling showcase of the animators’ inventiveness and dynamism. Watson
Body and Soul (Oscar Micheaux, 1925)
Body and Soul, Oscar Micheaux’s melodrama about sexual violence within a southern black community, was controversial even among black audiences. Noted as the film debut of Paul Robeson, the film bucks expectations by casting the handsome singer as Isaiah T. Jenkins, a criminal masquerading as a preacher. Jenkins beguiles a local worshipper, Martha Jane (Mercedes Gilbert) into leaving him alone with her daughter, Isabelle (Julia Theresa Russell). He rapes Isabelle and steals Martha Jane’s savings. As Jenkins palms the hard-earned cash, Micheaux inserts a woeful montage: Martha Jane’s hands ironing clothing, anonymous black hands picking cotton off the plant. Brown
Review: Deerskin Eerily and Evocatively Reflects on a Man’s Fragility
In Deerskin, Quentin Dupieux mines the absurdism that is his signature with newfound forcefulness.3
Underneath the absurdism and narrative mindfuckery of Quentin Dupieux’s films resides a sadness that the French writer-director mines with newfound forcefulness in Deerskin. The film has an eerie, evocative premise. Drifting through a mountainous town in France, Georges (Jean Dujardin) tracks down a vintage deerskin jacket. Smitten with the garment, Georges spends his entire savings on it, before then holing up in a nearly abandoned hotel and passing himself off as a filmmaker to the locals, especially to a young and attractive bartender, Denise (Adèle Haenel), who claims to be an aspiring film editor. We also learn that Georges is navigating a divorce, and that his wife has frozen his savings, which obviously leads one to believe that he’s in the midst of some sort of midlife crisis, electing to buy a jacket instead of, say, a Porsche, which he couldn’t afford anyway.
A little heftier than he was in The Artist, with an elegant graying beard, Dujardin bears a resemblance to Terrence Malick, and Georges, in his ludicrous way, even goes about pretending to make films in Malick’s register, shooting footage that Denise will shape into something free-flowing and subjective. Georges, like many a failure, is obsessed with the image of success above all, as a gratification of himself, and seems to have few passions or interests that might lead to its actual realization. An early scene suggests that Georges may have been a bored office drone, as he stops in a store and makes a ritual out of attempting to flush his old blazer down the toilet; he requires a more obvious totem of manliness, and he frequently references the deerskin jacket’s “killer style,” even talking to it on occasion.
These masculine symbols are somehow explicit and mysterious at once. If Dupieux had added any expositional dialogue, having Georges openly riff on his frustrations for instance, Deerskin’s spell would probably be dispelled. The film’s melancholic, comic charge springs from Georges’s commitment to his new reality, which comes to mirror the commitment of a real artist. The town is also visually resonant, suggesting a secluded village in a western; its landscapes imbue the film with a beauty that’s ironic—suggesting our addictions to the illusions of westerns and other masculine pop art—as well as wistful.
This beauty is also counterpointed with the crushing loneliness of the town’s citizens. Denise goes along with Georges’s schemes because she’s looking for direction, and there’s a brutally effective joke in which Georges is informed that a hotel clerk has killed himself—information that’s related with the sort of casualness that one might reserve for ordering breakfast. Georges walks into a room to steal something from the corpse, which is revealed to be a mannequin with a hole in its face. This is one of the great surreal flourishes of Dupiex’s career, the mannequin suggesting the desolation of people who choose to annihilate themselves.
Deerskin eventually takes a gruesome turn, as Georges decides that he must be the only person in the world with any jacket. As he begins a killing spree, the film, in its rhyming of the vocations of art-making and serial murder, recalls a lean and more playful version of The House that Jack Built, minus Lars von Trier’s laborious self-justifications. Dupiex, then, finds another macho totem to parody: the self-consciously intellectual art-house auteur who lards their fantasies with delusions of grandeur. But Dupiex also has a kindship with Georges, recognizing him to be the epitome of the toxic male as well as a lost soul in the tradition of men who are conditioned to play it safe with boring jobs, only to be self-shamed for that very dependency on safety. By killing others, Georges is announcing that he wants to die.
Cast: Jean Dujardin, Adèle Haenel, Albert Delpy, Coralie Russier, Marie Bunel, Panayotis Pascot Director: Quentin Dupieux Screenwriter: Quentin Dupieux Distributor: Greenwich Entertainment Running Time: 77 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Interview: Eliza Hittman on the Poetic Odyssey of Never Rarely Sometimes Always
Never Rarely Sometimes Always breaks new ground for Hittman as a filmmaker.
The level of vivid detail with which writer-director Eliza Hittman renders the procedural elements of procuring an abortion in Never Rarely Sometimes Always might stand out as the film’s most obvious point of discussion. A teenager’s journey to assert her bodily autonomy spans from a “crisis pregnancy center” in rural Pennsylvania meant to trick women out of terminating a pregnancy to the halls of a Planned Parenthood in Manhattan, illuminating structural biases and barriers along the way. But a focus primarily on what happens in Never Rarely Sometimes Always overlooks aspects of Hittman’s filmmaking that prevent the film from seeming like a sermon, or agenda-driven.
Don’t call Never Rarely Sometimes Always a neorealistic film, Hittman told me during a recent conversation, in spite of what the title of the special prize she received at this year’s Sundance Film Festival might suggest. As in her prior two features, It Felt Like Love and Beach Rats, Hittman both effectively dramatizes and stylizes the interior struggles of teenage characters forced to define their sense of self and sexuality in an unforgiving society.
But even as Autumn (Sidney Flanagan) takes on a relentless series of bureaucratic challenges, struggling to receive the medical care she seeks without parental permission, she can at least rely on the steadying presence of her cousin and confidant, Skylar (Talia Ryder). Their empathetic relationship operates on such a deep level of understanding that Skylar requires no protestation or persuasion to accompany Autumn on the journey. In the film, Hittman proves as adept at translating these ethereal and non-verbal moments of sororal support into grace notes as she does chunks of dialogue full of legal and medical jargon.
I interviewed Hittman the week of the film’s opening in New York. Our conversation covered how Never Rarely Sometimes Always expands and explores some of her previously evinced fascinations while also breaking new ground for her as a filmmaker.
Your films all have such distinct opening scenes, usually revolving around some measure of kind of performance for an audience or for the camera. How are you developing these first touch points that the audience has with the characters?
They’re all very different, I think. With Never Rarely Sometimes Always, I really wanted to playfully disorient the audience about the period of the movie.
That was successful. I was like, wait, what’s going on here?
And as a kid, I used to do all these really cheesy ‘50s talent shows. And it’s this moment in time that we romanticize, and the music is all saccharine about the myth of romantic love. Things that I’m interested in challenging. I thought it would be an interesting way to bring in the audience into the themes and the worlds. Set it in high school, because none of it really takes place in a high school. Introduce the character instantly as somebody who is in opposition to the feelings of the moment.
Aren’t the lyrics of the song Autumn sings “he makes me” or something like that?
“He makes me do things I don’t want to do.” It’s an Exciters song from the ‘60s.
Your films put on display this dichotomy between how teenagers conduct themselves in public versus how they do so in private. You’ve discussed watching them and developing your observations from an anthropological lens. How have you sharpened your instincts to tell whenever they’re performing and when they’re being authentic?
I think my goal, primarily, is to bring audiences into these private and painful moments. I’m giving this perspective about what they’re thinking and feeling lonely and isolated. I don’t know if Autumn is performing so well in public. We can feel her discomfort in the world and the weight of what she’s going through. It’s more than Harris’s character [Frankie, the closeted male protagonist of Beach Rats] performing masculinity. I don’t think that Sydney’s character is performing femininity as much in the world. She’s hiding herself. She’s wearing these clothes that hide her body. In a way, she’s pushing against showing her body and herself.
Your films capture the solitude of being young. It’s so crucial to that period of your life, but it’s very tough to render on screen. How are you taking this space for your characters to deal with their feelings from the concept or the script to the screen?
I think that there’s a lot of threads that the film juggles. You know, one is the sort of painful moment alone, you know, where she’s trying to terminate her own pregnancy. But it’s also about the friendship and the procedural aspect of what she’s going through.
And how do you go about bringing all that to life?
Originally, when I wrote the treatment for the film in 2013, it was actually just trauma. And I felt like that didn’t work. So, I knew that the narrative wouldn’t be successful if it was just her alone. It’s about her alone in the most vulnerable places in the story, like the procedure, navigating these adult situations and clinics by herself. Her cousin never has perspective on these things. So, I was just interested in [the fact that] even though she has somebody on that journey with her, she’s still very much alone with the burden of the pregnancy.
The way that you shoot a lot of those scenes with those really tight close-ups puts us right there with her.
They’re all subjective. The visual strategy is all subjective. And it’s about proximity and aligning the audience with what she’s thinking and feeling. It’s not just optically. So, the camera lingers close to her and then is wider on other people because it represents her distance and her keeping people from a distance. That’s all shaped on the page that way to conceptualize in the shot list that way.
Like the scene from which Never Rarely Sometimes Always derives its title, you also shot a scene from It Felt Like Love where the protagonist talks with her doctor about emergency contraception in a single unbroken close-up. As a man, I don’t pretend to understand what that moment feels like, so would you mind elaborating on why you’ve chosen to portray this moment in such a way?
The other one is definitely part of a building block to know what happens. The one in It Felt Like Love is different because she’s never had sex. So, she’s going through the discomfort of this kind of sexual history questionnaire. But she’s very innocent, and that’s the tension of the scene. But yeah, there’s a long take in it, so it has a similar shooting strategy. I think that scene was, in a way, the basis for the scene in Never Rarely Sometimes Always. I think it’s important that men watching it are never in those rooms. And they’re never asked those questions. And I think when men watch the scene, they always talk about it as being really invasive, and women watch it and talk about it as being really empathetic. Men are always, like [switches into a macho voice], “the scene is so invasive.”
Invasive in a good way, or invasive in a bad way?
In a really uncomfortable way. Whereas women are more accustomed to that sort of medical, clinical interrogation.
You mentioned starting Never Rarely Sometimes Always with the head fake that it might be a high school movie. The film also somewhat belongs to another genre, the New York movie. We see stories all the time about young people who come to the city to get what they want, and it’s usually some kind of magical or transformative experience for them. And in some ways, this kind of is that, because she comes here and gets what she wants, but it doesn’t feel particularly inspiring.
No, it’s not a sentimental or romantic look at New York. Her experience here is almost liminal, and she’s in liminal spaces. Wherever she’s in Port Authority, on the train, on the subway, she never has a moment to get comfortable or really take anything in.
Were you aware of and engaging with those tropes?
I was aware of them. I think New York is a really hard place to visit. And I don’t think people from out of town necessarily love it. I don’t think there’s anything intuitive about the way that it’s organized. And I don’t think it appeals to everybody.
The scene where Autumn emerges from Port Authority and kind of comes to the edges of Time Square was so striking because that’s a space that’s usually shot in such a fun way. But this is the actual experience going to Times Square. It’s terrifying.
Yeah, with that scene in particular, I wanted to show how disorienting it can be.
Your films put faces to a lot of things that we often engage with primarily on a conceptual level: toxic masculinity, homophobia, and the pro-birth extremism as shown by the crisis pregnancy centers. How do you go about personifying these things without turning them into caricature?
I mean, I think some men are a bit grumpy about the representation of men in the movie. But I think, for me, I was really trying to explore the tension that exists as a young woman, between you and an environment full of men. You learn to navigate their advances and how you can deflect…and ultimately become desensitized to it. I tried to find the balance between all of those male characters in their moments and glimpses; that part of the story is maybe a little bit conceptual. With the women in the crisis center in Pennsylvania, I went and met those women and took that test. Because I was concerned there about Christian caricatures. I’m just trying to do the best job that I can do and not make them things that I’ve seen before.
I don’t need to tell you we’re in a scary time with the Supreme Court even just last week, hearing this Louisiana case that could potentially imperil Roe v. Wade. What is the impact that you hope to have with this movie right now?
I think that the film is effective in putting a face to somebody who might otherwise be faceless and just a statistic and giving a voice to voiceless in a way. And I hope that the film helps people see the deep impact that these barriers have on lives. It’s a real impact. I think with documentary, and even in the research of this film, it’s harder to find because of confidentiality. You know, it’s hard to find people who really speak up about these issues.
With the freedoms of fictional filmmaking, too, and not having to be quite so married to the actuality or the reality, you can probe more deeply.
I didn’t want to be didactic. I really wanted to explore it from the point of view of a character study, and a poetic odyssey, a movie about friendship, and it’s not just about the issue. I hope that the story for people is layered and dimensional, not overly political or message-driven.
Interview: Kleber Mendonça Filho and Juliano Dornelles on Bacurau’s Politics
In our wide-ranging conversation, we covered the hazy distinctions between past, present, and future in both Brazil and the United States.
It takes a rich cinematic text to inspire not one but two separate repertory programs in New York, and Kleber Mendonça Filho and Juliano Dornelles’s Bacurau fits the bill. When I caught up with the Brazilian filmmaking team, they were in town for an extended stay to help kick off Film at Lincoln Center’s “Mapping Bacurau,” a series of their genre influences ranging from horror to action to westerns. (This series, unfortunately, will no longer proceed due to the COVID-19 outbreak.) While they had a direct hand in choosing the films in that lineup, they had no involvement in the second program, BAM’s “Rise Up!: Portraits of Resistance,” which placed Bacurau in conversation with such protest films as Glauber Rocha’s Antonio das Mortes, Gillo Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers, and Mati Diop’s Atlantics.
It’s the latter thematic thread that I spent most of my time discussing with Mendonça Filho and Dornelles, his longtime friend and collaborator. While an appreciation of their cinematic antecedents and inspirations for Bacurau enhances the viewing experience, it isn’t as vital as a knowledge of Brazilian history and politics. Mendonça Filho’s third film, his first sharing a directing credit with Dornelles, feels like both a continuation and escalation of his previous features, Neighboring Sounds and Aquarius. Both films located simmering tensions in Brazilian society surrounding corruption and inequality that explode in the near future of Bacurau. Residents of the titular village, facing an invasion by mercenaries willing to quite literally wipe them off the map, must take up arms in solidarity to protect their lives and land.
Don’t mistake the film for a statement on Jair Bolsonaro, however, as it was conceived years ago and shot months prior to his election. As Mendonça Filho and Dornelles pointed out, Bacurau speaks to the present only by coincidence. Yet in their recognition of history’s cyclical nature, their dystopian romp about society’s unaddressed faults can remain relevant through just about any president or administration. In our wide-ranging conversation, we covered the hazy distinctions between past, present, and future in both Brazil and the United States.
Your three features feel like they’re circling similar questions about land, heritage, and resistance, and community against a backdrop of capitalist crisis and inequality. In Bacurau, there’s this all-out warfare against imperialist intruders. Is that a reflection of the country and the world around you, or something completely separate?
Kleber Mendonça Filho: It’s interesting how we never really discussed any of that while making the films. But once we begin to talk about them, we learn a lot from critics and observers. It’s then that we realize that each one of the films has a very specific tone and speed, and it seems to match the times in which they were made. So, Brazil was actually very stable in the later years of the last decade when I wrote and shot Neighboring Sounds, but, of course, stable doesn’t mean that everything is fine. It means that there’s some disturbance, some diffused tension in society like all societies have. And I think that’s what the idea of “neighboring sounds” is. It’s kind of ethereal, and you can’t quite put your finger on what exactly is wrong and what [has the potential to] happen. Then there’s Aquarius, which was done in 2015. By 2013, things were beginning to go very wrong in Brazil, and I think the film rose out of that. We have been talking for years about Bacurau, and, of course, with everything that happened in 2016 in Brazil, when millions of Brazilians saw a soft coup d’etat—
Juliano Dornelles: I don’t see it as soft.
KMF: It’s soft because you expect tanks. That’s when Brazil began to deviate from what we see as democracy. And then, incredibly, we got to Bacurau, and it’s almost like we’re entering what should be dystopian fiction, literature or film, but it’s actually reality. I have to say, Mr. Trump’s election in the U.S. was part of what we were feeling, a change in the rotation of the political temperature. And then, we just wrote the film, feeling very connected [to the moment]. Then people, even in Cannes, tried to insinuate that the film was, or even interpreted the film as, a vision of Bolsonaro’s Brazil. This, of course, doesn’t make any sense because we shot the film seven months before he was elected. When we were shooting the film, I don’t know if you [to Darnelles] ever thought…he wasn’t even a candidate.
JD: It wasn’t even a possibility in the same year that he got elected. The beginning of the year, it was just a joke. It all happened pretty fast.
KMF: But it’s fascinating how you can be truthful to tone and atmosphere, which doesn’t really go through fact. I think truth is stronger in the atmosphere of things in society, than if you start discussing actual fact. I think we were truthful to what was happening.
Each of the films, by chance of what happened in between the time that they were shot or conceived and when they were released, looks prophetic in a way. You’re picking up on the tremors that lead to these earthquakes that we see and observe.
JD: Yeah. It’s interesting because we’re about to show 20 Years Later, Cabra Marcado [the directing duo had programmed this film in Film at Lincoln Center’s “Mapping Bacurau” series]. It’s a documentary about, how can you say?
KMF: A community leader and a peasant…
JD: …a community leader in the moment of the dictatorship, the ‘60s and ‘70s. He got assassinated in ‘64, the same year of the beginning of the coup. The other coup.
KMF: A hard coup, with attacks and guns.
JD: In this film, it’s crazy because it started like your definition [of how the film picked up on political undercurrents]. And then began to be an idea.
KMF: Maybe we’re moving on to the second [a hard coup in Brazil].
JD: Probably, I don’t know. So, in this film, they show some images of newspapers. The film is filled with fake news, calling people communists. They aren’t communists, but they’re called that. So it’s crazy because it’s the same thing. It’s crazy because this film is prophetic, and now Bacurau can be called prophetic. But it’s interesting because it’s just a look into the past. You can find the same situations all of our history.
KMF: I can almost see some place in the world using guillotines to punish people, kill people through the power of the state. And then, of course, we go back to almost 300 years to the French Revolution. I don’t think that’s too far off. It’s very scary to think about that.
Nowadays, I think you could get away with that but for the optics. If you could somehow do it in a more palatable way—
KMF: There’s a very frightening moment that I don’t know why we didn’t subtitle. Maybe because we thought it would become a political event inside the film, and it was designed just to be on the corner of the screen, which is a very white screen. When Terry [one of the mercenaries] is inside one of the houses in Bacurau, there’s a television which is on. And it says that public executions are restarting at 2 p.m. And it’s like a live feed. So, there are executions. There are executions all over the world. They’re in Brazil, in America, in Mexico.
JD: Black and poor people are being executed. Right now [points to watch]. Another one. Another one.
KMF: We don’t quite have a public execution on television at 2 p.m. That’s one thing we don’t have, but we have all kinds of different executions. It’s a fascinating idea when just the use of words takes things one notch up, and it becomes tougher.
The setting of Bacurau is “a few years from now.” Was it always this indefinite looming specter of the future as supposed to a fixed date? If you enumerate it, you start thinking, “Okay, how long did it take to get to this point, and that point?”
KMF: I love those questions the viewers find themselves with when they see the film. We always talk that it’s the best and cheapest special effect in film. Just five words.
JD: A few years from now.
KMF: It puts you in a heightened state of alert. So, you begin to scan the screen and look for evidence of the future. There’s very little evidence of anything related to the future because the future is actually now.
Neighboring Sounds and Aquarius open with montages of black-and-white vintage photographs of the past. It’s not how Bacurau opens, but we see the same types of photos inside the museum and inside the houses. It doesn’t strike me as a coincidence that the climactic battle takes place inside the museum, the past and the future overlapping.
KMF: My mother was a historian so maybe that’s one explanation. I love documents, photographs, archives. Aquarius is actually about that, but it doesn’t tell you that. You can tell by watching the film that this is gone. This [film] is completely obsessed with objects, archives. Neighboring Sounds doesn’t really feel that way. But it’s very much about the weight of history and how people carry history on their back. And of course, in Bacurau, people keep inviting other people to come visit the museum.
JD: One thing that I like to think also is that we come from the big city, not from that particular region. We’re from the northeast region, which is a huge region. So, the culture is very different there. We were always concerned about not making a film of people that we don’t really know. So, I think this contact, this wish to use archive images and history, it kind of gives us more safety to walk into this terrain. And, yeah, it brought a beautiful confirmation when we started to look for this particular location, that village, we discovered that many other little villages like that had their own museums. But these museums, we didn’t know about them, and we just wrote them. It was great.
KMF: But I think we were familiar with the kind of cultural profile that these communities have. We loved them very much. And they’re so full of culture and understanding of history. It doesn’t mean that everybody is into all of that. We have the special people in each community.
JD: And this kind of thing about people from the sertão [the “outback” region in which the film is set] is starting to change more and more because, of course, everything that happened in the bigger cities is starting to happen there. The growing of the evangelical Pentecostal churches, for example. And everybody is very connected to the internet. So, they have access to the same stuff that we do so. They’re starting to change.
KMF: Have you seen Central Station by Walter Salles?
I have not.
KMF: It was shot in ‘97. The sertão that Walter shot doesn’t exist anymore. That was 20 years ago. But the sertão he shot still resembles very much the sertão from the ‘80s, ‘70s, and ‘60s, which means that, economically speaking, it’s a region that was pretty much left to its own devices. Just by having a complete lack of access to goods from the industry, it protected itself. Not because it wanted to, but just because it had to, in terms of not really changing much architecture and clothing and colors and things like that. But then, in the last 20 years, two things happened: the internet and Lula’s presidency, which brought quite a lot of change to the sertão. So, the sertão we shot in Bacurau is actually, I think, a modified version of the classic images of the sertão. It’s not the only film project [to depict the region]. There are a number of other interesting films: Love for Sale by Karim Aïnouz, and I Travel Because I Have to, I Come Back Because I Love You is a wonderful documentary.
JD: They have already observed those kinds of changes.
KMF: And then when we do the futuristic thing, we basically use the system we have now with some touches [of the future], which come from costumes, art direction, and production design.
That’s a very interesting way to kind of approach the past because a lot of filmmakers, whenever they look backwards, employ a nostalgic glance. And you’re recognizing that it’s not just that. The past is a prologue. We’re living with the past all the time in the present, and when we try to go forward, we can’t seem to escape our history. We’re locked into repeating the cycle.
JD: We actually say this a lot in the Q&As!
KMF: You’re saying that we look towards the future by thinking about the past. Yeah, that’s what I said about the guillotines. We made a film about the future, which is basically about all the mistakes and keep being repeated in Brazilian society and, well, maybe other societies also. It’s a classic situation. For instance, we have a classic problem with water in the northeastern region, and it’s been going on for over 100 years. And, of course, we have the technology, and Brazil is a rich country. Brazil can fix that, but apparently, a number of people aren’t interested in fixing that. I don’t know why.
JD: Uh, we can guess why! [laughs]
We’re sitting here eye-rolling about how the past is going to keep repeating itself, and I’m curious, do you feel any hope that maybe we can break the cycle? Is it going to take all-out violent rebellion to arrive there, or even move the needle at all?
JD: My way of thinking is that we have this kind of cycle that always tries to go backwards, and we have other cycles where we try to make some advances. We start to do it, and we build something. I’m trying to believe that what we build in people’s spirits and minds, maybe it’s hard to destroy. Because talking about the Brazilian government, they can instantaneously destroy a lot of stuff. But it’s kind of hard now to convince a lot of poor people that were used to being helped with money, actual money from the government, to improve their lives. It’s very difficult now to take this [back] again. So, he [Bolsonaro] tried, and he couldn’t do this, he needed to restart. Everybody will understand that 10 years ago, 15 years ago, life was much better. So, I think this is some something that it’s not easy to just destroy. And, on the matter of the education also, I think we didn’t advance everything that we could. But we were seeing many people from lower classes, black people are just getting their college degrees now.
KMF: Because of the investment that was done 15 years ago.
JD: This can be something that will make some difference in the future.
KMF: The investments done 15 years ago are beginning to bear fruit. Now we’re beginning to get doctors, engineers, and judges coming from the lower classes and from people coming from the racial divide. Now, we have a government that actually believes that the poor part of the population really has to basically only do manual labor. Not necessarily go to university because universities are for those who “deserve” to. You actually hear people from the government saying that. We are now stuck in a moment of history, which will inevitably lead to good things, but there’s a lot of terrible events, which are still taking place.
JD: We are in the middle of the bad cycle, but I believe that it will change.
KMF: Juliano made an interesting point about how people remember. The problem is, I’m not sure they remember. We all go and have an amazing time at a friend’s house some Saturday evening, and we all remember that evening with great affection. It was a wonderful gathering of people. And then, over the following months, we begin to read about that gathering as the worst, most horrible, nastiest experience that human beings have ever experienced. And then, slowly, we begin to change our own memory of what happened that day. And now, we believe what was written about that evening, and we never say, “But wait, guys, we were there. It was. It was amazing. It was just wonderful people. We had great conversations. It was fantastic.” But, no, people are actually believing the official story. And the way this has been rewritten is quite scary. Because they use technology and the internet for bombardment of this other version. And now, in Brazil, it’s crazy because people just do not remember what was happening in the last decade. They’re now using the official version, which came in the shape of press, the internet, and what we now understand as fake news.
JD: I want to believe that there are two ways. One, all that suffering from before the Lula years…[there] was huge suffering, hunger, and poverty. The highest rates of poverty that are still the same now. If this kind of thing returns, maybe they will remember, that’s my point. Because now we’re on the verge of currency devaluation. So, people will start to not be able to buy anything more. And when it starts to hurt their pockets, they will [remember].
KMF: The Financial Times ran a great piece on us in London on Saturday. However, in one paragraph, he writes about when [the cast and crew of] Aquarius did the protests on the red carpets against the ousting of Dilma Rousseff, who at the time was facing corruption charges, which means we support a corrupt president. The word that was missing in the piece was who was facing trumped-up corruption charges. That’s the way it should have been written. And I wish I could have a cup of coffee with that journalist and say, “Listen, do you know what you’re doing? Are you aware of what you’re doing?” Because it’s not accurate information.
It’s buying into the alternate history that you’re talking about and erasing what actually happened.
KMF: Exactly. It’s very subtle, but I keep thinking about, I don’t know, some student in Berlin reading this over breakfast, or some guy reading this in South Africa, and then you spread this version of things, which I find quite incredibly naïve.
It’s an interesting choice that, at the end of the film, the villagers choose to bury Udo Kier’s mercenary character alive rather than just finishing him off. That feels like it’s setting the stage for this to happen again, as we all know what happens to bodies that get buried in genre films.
KMF: We actually wrote a war-style execution engine, like with hands tied in the Second World War. Pacote [a villager] would come and just shoot him in the head, and he would fall into the hole. But I just told Juliano, I don’t want to shoot this.
JD: It’s boring.
If you’d done that, too, I think you might have opened up the film to “both sides” criticism around violence.
KMF: We have this image of fascism coming back. It’s a little plant, which it is, over the last 10 years.
JD: It starts little, and then it’s a big tree.
KMF: I remember 20 years ago, when I was a child, the whole idea of fascism was just impossible. It never worked. It’s horrible. It killed millions of people. And now, it’s like, time has passed. It’s like [people think], oh, maybe fascism is interesting.
JD: It’s started to flourish again.
KMF: So, Udo is like a seed. A plant.