Magic and Myth

Happy Christmas? Got an Oscar Wilde action figure. You? Plans for New Years? 80s-themed night at the local with my bro and sis. You?

Awkward small talk regarding the holidays sorted. Good.

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (or my last blog post), I wrote a scene about a crazy girl in a bar and didn't really know what to do with it. Well.

I've been thinking about a story for a while that's sort of a martial arts/samurai version of this story from ancient Greek myth. Well, I've had the idea since I watched Kill Bill and wanted to imitate Tarantino probably (keep you posted on my superhero idea clearly only inspired by Scott Pilgrim Vs The World). Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said 'good writers borrow, great writers steal?' Or was it Pablo Picasso who said 'good artists borrow, great artists steal?' Or was it T.S. Eliot who said 'immature poets borrow, mature poets steal?' No matter. They were awesome and condoned creative theft. Hmmm. Seems wrong somehow.

I digress. So the myth goes something like this; Daedalus, master craftsman and constructor of the labyrinth, is pretty sure he's the business at crafting shit. Until his sister's kid comes along. His name is Perdix and Perdix is super good at building stuff and this makes Daedalus well jealous. So one day while they're walking along some cliffs, hanging and chilling, Daedalus decides to push Perdix off one. A cliff, that is. In the myth I read the kid just plain died and Daedalus was banished, which is how he wound up building the labyrinth. But in the one I just looked up (cough, on Wikipedia, cough), the goddess Athena turned the kid into a bird before he hit the ground. This is supposedly the origin of the Partridge. The bird, not the family of musicians from the 70s.

How are these things related, you might ask? Well. I think the girl has the makings of being a Perdix character, looking for her Daedalus. I wanted to do a story about an assassin who kills one of his students because she's clearly going to be better than him. She survives and begins picking off the members of his organisation before killing him. The cliff stuff is genius, because the scene I've written already has that. In the myth, Daedalus is branded with the image of Perdix as punishment and I thought maybe this could be her mark? He pushes her off a cliff, she somehow survives, and exacts her revenge. There's a definite fight/flight motif running through this story (thank you, friend who talked about the fight or flight urge and how you can have one more than the other), and it can be seen in the original scene I wrote. And it's explicit in the one I'm about to share with you.

So this story is shaping up first of all to be about art, how we validate ourselves through our work and what it means when someone does better what we thought was ours alone, but also about our instincts; that constant tension between fight and flight that we live through every day and how others force us to enact those struggles every day. Please to enjoy the next scene I haves written!

An explanatory note (well, another one): I haven't written it as a scene in a film. I've written it as a monologue, then added directions. It's more notes on how to write the scene more than anything. Please to enjoy! Again!

It's the flight or fight complex. That survival instinct that kicks in when you know that if you walk into this territory you'll end up with a gun to your head or a knife to your throat.

What I've figured out is that no one has both. Oh, they'll try to tell you it's a constant struggle between the two, but that's bullshit. BULLSHIT.

See, to me, the real struggle comes from the realisation that in the moment flight or fight comes upon you, you're not who you thought you were.

When I was a kid, I had the drunken arsehole of a father who would start shit when he got home from the pub. I would stand up to him while my brother went and hid in his closet. That's how I learned that while my brother's instinct was flight, mine was to fight.

And that's why I'm so good at what we do. I know who is flight, and who is fight. And I know when someone realises that when they thought they'd be fight, they're actually flight. And you my dear, I'm afraid I know exactly what you are. You're flight.

This is dialogue, delivered direct address-style to the camera. It's our opening scene, our opening shot. In CU we see a middle-aged man. He looks tough. Battle-weary. Street-smart.

We pull back to an MCU and we see the landscape for the first time. It has large rocky mountaintops and cliffs filled with sharp points like raised daggers covering its surface. It is beautiful but treacherous. We CUT TO the person he has been talking to.

It's the girl from the bar with the wild red hair. Blue eyes like a cold flame. Now, though, she looks as though every inch of her is vibrating with fear.

He pushes her off the cliff.

And now I need to know where to go from here. Yay!

One of these days I'm gonna get organizized

So I made a tentative hair schedule for 2011 (it's not lame...is it? No. Couldn't be. It's not like I have celeb hair pics stored in my phone...anymore...), and I do believe it brings me that much closer to organising the rest of my life. No New Years Resolutions, because they suck, and no one ever keeps them.

So because they're not quite formed thoughts, yet, here is a list/notes to myself:

1. Enrol in WEA Spanish for Beginners course (just need funds in back account).
2. Research: Critical analysis at UNSW (contact postgrad coordinator and hope she forgets she taught me in Honours and I wrote a really crap essay for her seminar)
3. Research: practice-led research at Macquarie?
4. Ideas: study of morality and pursuit of pleasure in film with particular reference to a story set in Sydney; study of relationship between screen and spectator - practice-based or critical analysis; study of genre and masculinity - script about human vs zombies team.
5. Work my way back to directing this year? Maybe even ask to direct Christmas Dinner?
6. Ask about comps or funding or stuff to get scripts some recognition or money or something?

Ok, good. Now I can lelaxxxxx.

Wild in the Streets, Barely Alive

So I often have ideas swimming around in my head for ages and get really lazy about getting them down on paper. But recently I had some time to kill for writing, and because I was trying to work on one piece, I had a brief lightning strike moment in which I wrote a scene for...well, I'm not sure.

I have a few ideas for it, but I'm not sure where to take it. So I figure getting it out into the internetz might lead to some sort of inspiration.

So here tis:

As she walked through the doors she had everyone in the bar's attention. Hardly surprising, really. It was full of bikers, middle-aged bearded men in leather. In age she beat them all by about 20 years.

The women in the bar, scarce as they were, resembled the men more than they resembled her. She wasn't giving anyone in the bar the satisfaction of a first glance, let alone a second.

She sat down at the bar and waited. To the bar patrons, and probably the rest of the world, the girl was worthy of more than a cursory once-over. She was wearing a long black t-shirt that was supposed to qualify as a dress, accompanied by ripped tights and scuffed motorcycle boots. Her long, bright red hair was what could only be described as a mess. The ghost of an up-do remained, making it look as though she had pulled her hair out in a rage.

Her make-up was similarly messy, with mascara that looked like it was running down her face and her lipstick smudged. It reminded some of the Joker. The dark smudges around her blue eyes made them blaze out of her face. All in all, this girl looked like she'd been in a big scrap. The entire bar wondered who had won the fight. All bets were on her.

But one patron found her absurd. He leaned against the bar, standing near to where she was sitting. He took his time before speaking. "You know, Halloween's over, Honey." His female companion cackled, the sound slicing through the atmosphere.

She swiftly turned to face him, and her blue eyes burned into his. The shitkicking grin on his face faltered, flickered, went out. The bartender came over soon after.

"You got ID?" he asked, knowing the answer. She stared at him for what seemed like a long time. The bar collectively held ther breath.

She got up and stormed out. The bar followed her with their eyes. Soon conversation returned to normal, except for the guy who had to stare into her eyes. He didn't say a word for the rest of the night.

I have a couple of stories this could fit into. Is there a mystical element? Is she just some punk kid trying to forge her identity? Is she some assassin in the making, waiting to be brought under some more experienced person's wing? Is she a time-traveller having a rough time of it? These are the contexts I've previously created that this heroine could fall into. Is she even a heroine? Not sure yet, but any suggestions are welcome and appreciated.

Look at this fucking procrastinator.

So some advice came back to haunt me as I sat tonight with five browser windows and my script open on my desktop. My script left untouched, I was losing hours going from Facebook to Look at This Fucking Hipster. And I believe I wrote exactly two scenes. Hmph.

The advice? There's not a lot that will get done by simply sitting in front of the computer. I recall the good old days when I would write everything down on notebooks before I even turned the computer on. Now I complain that my job is unfulfilling, get home, fire up the laptop and sit on Facebook for three hours before watching a DVD I've watched a million times. Oh, but I've tried to get a job in my field (searching for jobs on Seek that require at least 2 years experience once a few months ago). I've made steps but I lack the motivation required to actually do this. I need to shake myself out of this ridiculous behaviour. I've become so lazy I hurt my back sleeping.

I'm hoping that even though this constitutes sitting in front of my computer, and that blogging must be done ironically, that keeping up this whole writing thing will be a motivation. With that in mind, here are some things I've tried to work on, or have discovered recently.

Runaways Review
This was supposed to be a collaboration, but, well, things get in the way, innit? Here's what I have so far:

“Their music is that raw energy that you feel when you're 15 and you're sort of coming into your body. You realise that you have a body, and people are paying attention to you, looking at you. The Runaways' lyrics are very primal. And then all of a sudden you're pushed in front of all these men that are going wild for you. That's what I was trying to capture: all those crazy feelings that they had.”
-- Floria Sigismundi

“Somebody's writing a screenplay from your book and you think to yourself, Wait, was my story not good enough for you? But I think all in all she's accomplished something interesting.”
-- Cherie Currie

Runaway – noun.

1.A person who runs away; a fugitive; deserter.
2.A horse or team that has broken away from control.
3.The act of running away.
4.A decisive or easy victory
5.A young person, esp. a teenager, who has run away from home.

Singer, author and artist Cherie Currie was just 15 years old when she took her place as frontwoman of arguably the first all-girl punk rock band The Runaways. Though her stint would be short, it is probably the most memorable. While this could have been yet another story of a young life extinguished by the lure of sex, drugs and rock and roll, it's both refreshing and comforting to know that not only would Currie live to tell the tale, she would write the book on which Director Floria Sigismundi's feature debut The Runaways is based.

The story centres on the forming of the band but is essentially the story of the relationship of Currie and guitarist and founding member Joan Jett. Jett, born Joan Larkin, would form the band with drummer Sandy West with considerable help from eccentric novelty and pop record producer Kym Fowley. If Fowley's declarations to the media are to be believed, The Runaways may seem more Spice Girls than Sex Pistols, but he is proof that sometimes, you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

While Currie may think that Sigismundi has taken liberties with her story, telling Elle magazine that it initially made her question Sigismundi's abilities as a director, the story of Currie and Jett's relationship has been expertly handled. The Runaways is more than a biopic – it's a coming of age story and an exploration of young female sexuality against a musical backdrop. Currie's journey in the film speaks volumes for any teenage girl and for every woman who remembers the feeling of freedom and perceived invincibility that comes along with growing up and opening yourself up to new experiences. Everyone has had a friend at some point in their lives who has helped them forge an identity free from the constraints of family and Joan represents this for Cherie.

Sigismundi's experience as a music video director has served her well, bringing these girls and their stories to life against a rock and roll palette – from the opening image of the blood of Cherie's first period to the bright magenta of Joan's blazer at the film's end, the film is saturated with the colours of rock and roll; black, red, white, pink, and silver. Her recreations of some of the band's most memorable moments, such as Cherie's performance of Cherry Bomb in lingerie in Japan perfectly captures the raw energy of the band and Currie's stage presence.

Without resorting to cliché, it seems the role of Cherie Currie is the role Dakota Fanning was born to play. At 15, she is the same age that Currie was when she joined the band, and no doubt is used to the experience of growing up publicly.

Jett recalls hearing tapes of Kristen Stewart performing some of the Runaways' tracks for the film:

“Early on, they sent me a test recording of a song called 'I Love Playing With Fire' that I in the Runaways, and all I could hear was me on the track. And I'm like, You have to send me another one with Kristen's voice on it – I didn't hear her...And they're like, No, it is Kristen. She had mastered my inflections, how hard I would hit words, every aspect of how I'd the sing the song.”

Not really sure how to finish this, but I'm hoping to some day, perhaps when the film is released on DVD. Sigh. I think I was going to talk about the costumes and make-up, you know, cover that whole mise-en-scene thing in depth that audiences get real excited about and shit.

Quotes were sourced from the following:

Durbin, K 'The Runaways' Elle.com, http://www.elle.com/Pop-Culture/Movies-TV-Music-Books/The-Runaways, accessed ‎4 ‎August ‎2010.

Easy Riders, Raging Bulls by Peter Biskind

I was given this book by a friend for my birthday, and have been obsessed. It made me nostalgic for the American New Wave, for though I wasn't even born when it died, I studied films from the period and fell in love with the directors involved. Well, obviously not Spielberg and Lucas. Pft. I read an article by the writers of Bonnie and Clyde and wished I'd been there, wish I could write something that helped rewrite the rules of the Classical Hollywood Style.

Reading about filmmakers who were as nerdy about film as I am served to remind me how much I love writing about film and how it's so much more than just watching film and thinking it's good or bad, but about looking into that screen and trying to figure out why it makes me feel sad, or happy, or inspired. Not only that, but the sociological investigation form by that particular shot, or lighting setup, or gesture.

And sick of that look (the raised eyebrow, the open gaping mouth) that greets me whenever I reveal that I've never seen The Godfather, I finally watched, erm, the Godfather. And I must say, it deserves that look of incomprehension when someone who loves film reveals they haven't seen it. I now own that look.

I know that it seems proof of the kind of filmmaking Coppola wanted to avoid, or never saw himself making, but it's proof of his brilliance. It's proof of his faith in actors, and a willingness to allow composition to come to the fore. The contrast between the wedding and Don Corleone's business dealings, portrayed almost entirely through lighting (and that stray cat of Brando's - genius) was incredible. The constant struggle between business, family and tradition is played out within every scene. Suspense is built up through an economic use of sound, which made me jump like a little kid when Sonny is gunned down on his way to beat the living shit (again) out of Connie's deadbeat husband.

That feeling of frustration as history and perhaps mistakes are repeated is revealed in some incredibly powerful scenes - the relationship between Kay and Michael serves the primary function of revealing how close Michael is to the edge - Kay tries to bring him into the new world, but fails several times. Michael falls into the darkness, which makes the final scene chilling. It's also my favourite. The simplicity of the final shots, the last line ("Don") leaves you just...really fucking impressed. I cannot believe I have gone this long without experiencing that film. Luckily I had Taxi Driver to tide me over.

It's another film to add to my list of films that seem to be a history of American masculinity. What else is a girl to do?

PhD? MPhil? Nothing?

Ok, so this is how I summed up what I'm interested in researching in a recent email:

At this stage with my research I'm interested in the relationship between the screen and the spectator and the experience of watching a film, particularly with horror. There are some theories about bodily responses to film and I'm interested in how that works with horror and violent films, particularly because there's an argument for censorship that implies a really close relationship between the screen and the spectator and I want to investigate that idea (and hopefully not end up giving their argument more support - it's more about 'is it a genuine fear that there's such a direct relationship and this is where this argument stems from?'). Also, historically there's been talk of a gendered viewing experience and I want to know whether that's still relevant, and anyway, it probably sounds stupid and boring on paper. If you get me started talking or writing about it I'll never stop!

I have no idea if someone's written about this already (most definitely) haven't researched it at all for the last 6 years (lazy. well, stuck in Communication Studies hell, which as we all know is where bad people go when we die), but talked about it nonstop (procrastinator), but I guess we'll just see. Just wait and see...

Actually, no! I'll do and not wait and see!!! More exclamation marks to suggest how emphatic I am being!!!! I'm going to go laugh at some hipsters now.

Edgar Wright Vs. Romance

Oh, erm, hello! This is just a quick message to say that I will one day soon write an essay that will blow your mind and it will appear right here on this very blog.

This is more of a to-do note for myself, but I would rather like to explore the following idea:

A lecturer once said in a class that some guy (can't remember - this always happens to me when I try to tell stories. I suck)once said that in the end, all classical Hollywood films are a romance.

I think I've mentioned previously that this is something that is becoming evident in the emergence of films that are now being identified as 'the bromance' (I prefer Bromantic Comedy, or Brom-Com), but I do believe I've found a filmmaker whose work perfectly sums up the idea that all films are a romance.

I'm not talking about the emergence of films focusing on the relationship between two guys (but I will one day), I'm talking about the idea that each film in some way follows the generic conventions of the romance genre. And Edgar Wright's work represents the clearest evidence that this statement that every Hollywood film is a romance is correct.

Even on the surface, it's pretty obvious; Shaun of the Dead was promoted as a romantic zombie comedy (or rom-zom-com) about a guy fighting off zombies to show his girlfriend he's capable of following through on his promises and is willing to embrace change. Scott Pilgrim Vs The World is about a slacker musician who defeats 7 evil exes in order to be with the girl of his dreams.

The two that are perfect examples of Wright's interest in the romance genre and may not be so obvious are the tv series Spaced and Hot Fuzz.

So that's what I want to talk about, and hopefully find out exactly who said the thing about all films being a romance, a bit of genre analysis and some research on the generic conventions of the romance genre. Then apply it all to Wright's work and proving why once again I win at being a film geek.

Catch ya on da flippidy.

Adoxography: Skilled writing on an unimportant subject

In keeping with the theme of last week, I feel that sometimes, the title of this particular post could easily apply to me. I often wonder what the term is for skilled speaking on an unimportant subject.

I've been pulled into the world of buzzwords, procedures, processes, customer service, etc, and I find myself dabbling in adoxography less and less. And it pains me. Because my writing on those subjects isn't that skilled.

After reading interviews with Eli Roth and thinking he was going to reinvent the horror film because he's a filmmaker who really knows his generic conventions and therefore his films will be awesome, and being subsequently disappointed (you know I love you, Roth. Right?) I realised that perhaps it's true: critics talk better than they film. The exception to that rule is of course the critics of Cahiers du Cinema who would go on to create the Nouvelle Vague. But apart from them, who else? Scorsese is a film historian - does that count, I wonder?

My directorial debut (student of course) required me to go into detail about my infleunces and what I wanted the film to communicate and I think that what I wrote about the film promised something I ultimately couldn't deliver. And I remembered that my last project for my degree in Australia was much the same - my exegesis (document of creative practice and creative process in regard to a particular work) was about genre and genre transformation and if you hadn't seen the film you'd probably think it was some amazing work. The term 'new Simon Pegg' might be thrown around (a gal can dream, can't she?). But it wasn't. We saved it from being a complete disaster but in the end I was still embarrassed to show it to my peers in Manchester. Which brings me back to the subject: is my own analysis of my work simply a form of adoxography?

I've started reading yet another book and hopefully I'll finish this one (and then finish Brideshead Revisited, Nausea, The Age of Reason, The Brothers Karazmazov, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and Mrs Dalloway). It's called Scoop, by Evelyn Waugh. As a lover of fiction and hence buying it in its most accessible and economic form (cheapskate) - it's a Popular Penguin edition (you know, the orange and white one you can pick up for a tenner while lamenting the fact the prettier edition next to it in Borders is almost three times the price?) and it had a little bio of Waugh. The thing that caught my attention was a quote from Mr Waugh himself, which is the following:

"I regard writing not as an investigation of character but as an exercise in the use of language, and with this I am obsessed. I have no technical psychological interest. It is drama, speech and events that interest me."

What I think he was saying here is not that character is of no consequence to him in his writing, but more that he writes as someone with an interest in the structure of how we communicate - that is, it is the structure of the novel that primarily moves him; language, words, sentences, chapters. Psychology and motivation are secondary, but nonetheless important.

Which made me happier about the way in which I approach my own work. I'm often inspired by the language of film before characters. I like to place my characters in a particular film world and the filmmakers I admire all use their films primarily as an invetigation of the structure of film just as much as the stories and the characters who inhabit that world; Hitchcock, Tarantino, Scorsese, and Wright in particular.

And it is rather nice to be able to say to people, 'well, my approach to my work is in much the same vein as the likes of Evelyn Waugh.' Because I'm white.

Waugh has given some delicious delicacies for thought, but the advice I think I always come back to came not from a famous novellist or groundbreaking filmmaker (yet!) but from a friend of mine in Manchester,a fellow writer who helped make me realise that writing is my passion. Whenever I told her I was stuck on a scene she would say what do you want it to say?

Anyone who knows me will say I have too much to say - maybe that's my problem and I always wonder if what I'm saying is actually of any value in this world, but I'll say it anyway. And I figure that if I'm speaking the language of film, which is primarily visual, at least I'll be saying it without opening my great big trap of a mouth.

They shoot film critics, don't they?

I was reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair and in it was an article about film critics and their deteriorating status in the arts and media community. Many high profile critics have found themselves unemployed, such as Andrew Sarris (I have quoted this gent in a few essays and was shocked - though if I recall I was disagreeing with him. Ahem.). The article discussed a debate these firings had raised regarding whether or not film critics are even necessary.

It's an interesting point if you think film criticism is merely a matter of deciding if a film sucks or if it's totally flipping sweet. Some people for a long time have probably resented the idea of someone telling them what movie to see. Others need to be told. I must say I have stopped listening to my beloved David Stratton regarding which new release to see - but I would go to one of his classes in a heart beat.

And it did make me wonder when I've spent most of my time recently watching films that you may argue are hardly the stuff of serious or high art; films like Sex and the City 2 and The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. Or even my beloved Step-Brothers or The Hangover...but these films are not without interest to the earnest film critic. Ahem. I would like to say that I am neither Team Edward nor Team Jacob. I am staunchly Team Bella's Dad, for the record.

I wonder if this same argument is turned upon art criticism or theatre criticism. Is it the same hierarchy of art forms all over again? Literature with a capital L as opposed to literature? Does a Global Financial Crisis mean that we suddenly start deciding what is necessary and what is a luxury and we've decided that since film and television isn't really art the practice of analysing it is also now redudant? I protest loudly, because the last time there was a similar economic depression, the movies did a roaring trade. And if you want a perfect summation of why something considered 'escapist' is not a bad thing but a wonderful thing, please read the Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.

What we're talking about is taking art and attempting to find meaning within it, or to translate the images in terms of what they are expressing about our culture and society. Sure, I'm trying to justify one of my chosen careers (well, a future career necessitates that the career still exists in the future). If we think there is no value in film criticism, we may as well pack up half of the humanities department of every university in the world. Why don't we all do a Commerce degree and talk about the economy for the rest of our lives? Dear lord, take me now.

My field's endangered existence got me thinking about my goals and what I would like to do in this area both right now and in the future.

So here it is:

Some sort of superhero exploration - I find Watchmen such a fascinating superhero film and I have an article about it bookmarked and ready to read. But I found myself thinking that superheroes tend be quite an American phenomenon. Or rather, the Hollywood superhero expresses something quintessentially American. It would be ridiculously easy to say it's a fantasy designed to perpetrate the myth of America's control over the world. And I think it would be wrong. I think there's something more to be gleaned from the likes of Iron Man and their context in contemporary society and contemporary warfare. So I'm a gonna research this and try to write something meaningful.

The masculinity thing - I wrote a post about all this stuff I was researching and subsequently lost it all and being too lazy to write it over again, I did some bullet points and included pictures of boys holding hands. Would like to explore that and make it more intelligent.

Blog combining fashion and film - Russh magazine did a fashion spread based on Badlands and I wrote a post a while back about how my style influences are usually movie characters, not models or trends. I want to combine that and style looks from films, hopefully using clothing that is both affordable and available now. My friend was thinking of almost exactly the same thing so we need to put our heads together and write that shit!

Film and television scripts - I'm working on several ideas for television series with friends and a feature film that's a cross between gossip girl and sartre's nausea. Read more about one of the television projects, The Innocents, over at Hell Is Other People.

PhD - yes, for a while now the plan has been to do the old doctor of philosophy business. I'm interested solely in the relationship between the screen and the viewer and how that relationship has developed. Completely afraid that it has all been done and I am completely irrelevant. And a lecturer suggested in a seminar (not directly at me but I still felt the sting) that it was shortsighted. Fuck you! Says I. Maybe. Not really.

Teach in Uni - so I probably need to achieve the goal above first before I do this but I would dearly love to teach film studies at university. I've already designed two courses in my head, one of course on spectatorship (I don't think it's been taught as a subject in its own right very much) and one on music in film that is more about music as mood, genre convention and so on. I also would love to teach a course about horror - of course that's been done but I'd love the chance to make it my own.

So there you haves it! I think I'll achieve at least one of the things on this sucker before I die. I am an optimist, after all!

A word to all those naysayers re: film critcs: Cahiers Du Cinema (well, that's three, but you get my drift). And Wikipedia tells me Martin Scorsese is a film historian. So, go die.

Songs with your name in them are awesome

My mum's name was Barbara Anne. So whenever we had the opportunity to do so, we would sing Barbara Anne, by the Beach Boys, to her really loud. And of course she loved it. Actually, she hated it.

And in the tradition of hating songs with your name in them, so I hate Mustang Sally. I can say it's not my name, because it's spelled differently, but it all sounds the same when your family's yelling 'RIDE, SALLY, RIDE' at you.

But then something happened. Songs that I actually like started to have my name in them. The first is Long Tall Sally (I am neither long nor tall. Nor is my name spelled Sally - but I digress)- by a lot of people but the versions I love are by the Beatles and the Kinks.

The second is Don't Look Back in Anger by Oasis. And lately it's been one of those songs that I've written about before - songs that inspire scenes for projects I'm turning over in my little brain.

The song has this pervading sense of weariness, and it fits in perfectly with this feeling I want to create in one of my projects. I've written about a story I want to write that's sort of an exploration of the idle rich, or about people who live in a world of no consequence, and whether that's really true. It's certainly not original - the idea's been covered in a lot of texts and films that I admire. Actually, it's mostly in novels that this idea has been examined. And Gossip Girl. Ahem.

At the moment, my idea is about a group of young, rich, Sydney socialites who do nothing but be seen. One of them wakes up one morning, and something feels different. She wonders if she doesn't care about anything. I guess it's sort of an analysis of societal expectations and how we construct meaning - at the moment it feels like a hybrid of Less Than Zero and Nausea. I've thought of a line that I think sums up the entire feeling of the film, and that is, "I don't know. I just can't feel thinking that the party's over."

Which is why Don't Look Back in Anger has been so inspiring. That world weariness seems so perfect for this project. But it has also inspired a scene. I want a character to die, and see how this affects the group. I had an idea that it could be the result of a drug overdose or suicide, but I feel like that suggests that the character's actions have lead them to this - that they are being punished, in effect, and that's not the point. It's really about testing Liriope's ability to connect with her world, I think.

I was listening to this song on the bus, and what it originally inspired was Liriope's reunion with a character outside of her social scene, but to me that was too much like Gossip Girl, or insulting. Why must the problems of her inner self be solved by something external, and by a boy no less! And again, it would be another way in society enforces meaning on her life by dictating what she should care about. Lame.

Lately it's given me a scene in which Liriope, after witnessing the death of one of the people in her circle, is walking in a daze along a motorway, her white lace minidress stained with blood.

That's all I have for that at the moment. I'm listening to Leonard Cohen, Lou Reed and Tom Waits at the moment, so I'm sure they'll give me even more material. And of course, Morrissey and the Smiths are a constant source of inspiration for comments on the meaning of life and how people, on the whole, suck.

But cheer up and watch this. Your life will be better for it.

Post-Script, Post-Haste!

So I was intending on explaining how I separated the films I believed were the best and the films I love the most. But...erm, I forgot. But I like, and I'ma gonna let you finish, but first I gotta tell you why these films are so good.

So, the basic idea were films that moved me emotionally, or used the medium of film in a particular way.

So - Here's the list again, including explanations:

Citizen Kane - This film is proof of the almost indefinable perfection of the Classical Hollywood Cinema, because it looks like it's breaking all of the rules. Yet if you're watching very closely, you will see that it glides effortlessly from convention, to experimentation with convention. Not only that, but this is Welles' first film - there are so many techniques he carried over from his experience in radio and theatre that seem so wonderfully suited to cinema that forever after people would be saying to themselves 'why didn't we think of this before?' Oh, and the score by Bernard Herrmann? EXQUISITE.

Vertigo - I'm not even sure where to start on this one. Is it that breathtaking opening by Saul Bass? Is it those 20 minutes in which our protagonist's character and his relationship to Madeleine is slowly revealed in perfect silence? Maybe it's the subtle subversion of Jimmy Stewart's persona? Or is it the romantic treatment of a man's obsession with an image that makes for some wonderfully creepy viewing? It could even be the amazing costumes by Edith Head or the haunting score by Bernard Herrmann. But I believe it just might be one scene after all. It's the scene in which Scottie's makeover of Judy into Madeleine is complete. She walks out of the hotel room, the glow of the green hotel light giving her the appearance of a ghost becoming corporeal as she moves from the bathroom to Scottie. They embrace, and we, like Scottie, no longer care that this is sick and twisted, and that he is crushing a young girl's personality and spirit for his own ends. Because we want the image too. We want Madeleine just as much as he does. And that is why Hitchcock is a fucking genius.

Wild Strawberries - I actually haven't seen this is in a while, and I think it's a testament to Bergman that even though I haven't watched it for ages, I still feel its power as a film. What is so amazing about this film is its story, and the way Bergman portrays the unfolding of a man's character through experimentation with genre, and particular film movements. What I also like is that it's a story about a man and his daughter-in-law - not a relationship you see explored in film very often.

Pulp Fiction - One thing I love about Tarantino is that he's a film geek to the core. Every single film he makes is merely an excuse to admire his favourite filmmakers. The man is also about homage, self-reflexivity, and genre. People may see that as irritating, that he's just assembling his films by taking other more talented filmmakers' work and pretending he thought of it first. Not true at all. What they fail to see is that Tarantino's films are partly a game - it's the cinematic equivalent of putting obscure song lyrics as your Facebook status and waiting to see who recognises them and comments with another line from the song - the effect is twofold; people know you're clever, and you find out which of their friends are awesome like you. So why is Pulp Fiction in particular so good? Well, it's the game. But more than that, it's to Non-Linear Narrative what Citizen Kane and the Classical Hollywood Cinema. What looks like a very celebrated example of a non-linear narrative is actually a perfect example of the three-act structure, and a classical structuring of temporal relations. If you want proof, read 'Breaking, Making, and Killing Time in Pulp Fiction', by Kevin Howley. He translated my thoughts into this article just in time for me to cite him in an essay about Citizen Kane and Pulp Fiction and the Classical Hollywood Cinema.

Breathless - Perhaps translated a little roughly, A Bout de Souffle (out of breath, more than Breathless) was one of the first films that changed French cinema in the late 1950s and changed the way critics thought about film as art. Not only were Godard and Co. filmmakers - they were film critics first. Their understanding of film as art allowed them to explore the medium fully. Fascinated by Hollywood cinema, and the work of Hitchcock in particular, Godard, Truffaut, Chabrol, and Rohmer sought to make the kinds of films they wanted to see, and elevate Hollywood cinema to the status of art. Breathless is Godard's exploration of the Film Noir genre. Where Welles' exploration was one that stayed within the conventions of the classical Hollywood cinema, Godard's seems to stay firmly outside it, taking a conventional plot and story and subverting it - while the classical Hollywood cinema privileges character motivation in service of the narrative, Godard removes it almost entirely. But the brilliance is that he doesn't entirely removes it but merely makes the cinema itself the character motivation. His anti-hero, Poiccard, acts like a character in a Film Noir. Patricia acts as the femme fatale, because she is the femme fatale and this is how they act. The other reason I love this film is because Patricia and Poiccard escape to a cinema and watch a film - the film is merely two actors reciting lines from a Voltaire poem, another clear statement from Godard that the cinema is pure art.

Taxi Driver - some have suggested that Scorsese hasn't made any films recently that have surpassed his former glory, and while that's probably true, I find many of his films seem to be a sort of history of masculinity and violence in America. And on that level you can't dismiss the power of films like Gangs of New York and The Departed, films that are most definitely a part of this cycle, even if you don't like them. I hate the former and like the latter, by the way. What I love about Taxi Driver is that it is an exercise in unease. Nothing much happens until the end, but the film is all about the climax. And that's true of every film, or should be, but the beauty of Taxi Driver is following a young man as he slowly unravels. In his mind, he is becoming a hero. The audience can only see a man becoming incredibly dangerous. And at the end, you're not sure if he's going to kill the girl he is trying to save, or rescue her. And if that storyline sounds familiar, then you've seen John Ford's The Searchers. Scorsese takes this idea of a flawed hero and turns the entire film into a character study. Not only that, but it also belongs to a series of films exploring the Vietnam War's effect on the men who returned home. Mean Streets is also an interesting take on this idea of the Vietam Vet and his capacity for violence. So is First Blood...yes, I'm referring to Rambo.

Crimes and Misdemeanors - I've devoted an entire blog to why this film is legen - wait for it - dary in the past, but if you can't be bothered reading that post, then I shall sum it up here. Essentially, the film is a study in morality and faith. What if everything we believed about acting in a moral way was wrong? If we are never punished for our misdeeds, either by the law or by what we refer to as our conscience or soul, how then do we derive meaning from the world? Is it proof that God cannot exist if a man can commit a terrible crime and never feel the effects of what he has done? Yes, a Woody Allen films explores all of these questions. And I was so tempted to put Manhattan in this list but thought it would be strange to have two Allen films in this list. I'll talk about it in the other section.

Rashomon - I've heard it said that Kurosawa's Rashomon has no English title because the word Rashomon is actually a kind of Japanese onomatopoeia - a word describing the sound a moving train makes. I've been too scared to Google it, because I really hope that's true. The film uses the perspective of multiple witnesses to portray one event, which was pretty pioneer type stuff when the film was made. The story is this: a nobleman is murdered, his wife raped, and a local bandit has been put on trial for the crime. A witness to some of the events relays the court proceedings to a monk while seeking refuge in a monastery during a rainstorm. The bandit gives his account, the noblewoman, and even the nobleman, through the use of a...erm, like Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost. Only no one gets to make out with the noblewoman. Anyway. Their accounts of the event are all different - the bandit portrays himself as the victim, as does the noblewoman. The nobleman portrays himself as a fallen hero. However, the witness has seen more than they realise, and reveals them all to be selfish cowards. But the film's true message, and this is why it kicks serious arse, is that the concept of objective reality may be nonexistent at worst and problematic at best. Memory is subjective, and our perspective will always be coloured by our personal investment in situations. And you thought Kurosawa was awesome because he inspired Lucas in writing Star Wars. Oh, and Toshiro Mifune is a one-man masterclass in acting as the Bandit.

No Country For Old Men - The Coen Brother have made some seriously awesome films - Fargo and Blood Simple spring immediately to mind, but this may be their masterpiece. It's almost flawless. The acting is incredible, particularly Brolin and Bardem. The editing perfectly elicits tension at all moments. The cinematography is breathtaking. And the much talked-about ending is absolutely spot on. I've also been told that it is almost completely faithful to Cormac McCarthy's novel. I'll just bet it is. Never stop making films, Ethan and Joel. Please.

Mystic River - Clint Eastwood is the king of making films that in anyone else's hands could be cliche-laden. Gran Torino is the story of an old racist learning a valuable life lesson from an Asian teen and his family. That just sounds ready for sentimentality and heavy-handed moralising. But it's Eastwood so it's an touching examination of the ways in which violence separates people. Mystic River's spot in my list is earned in its end: When Sean Penn's character seeks vengeance for his daughter's murder and enacts it, we the audience see that he has the wrong man. And it's utterly devastating.

Und now, for my most loved films and why.

Singin' In The Rain - I could list all of its cinematic virtues, but that's not why it's top of my list of most-loved films of all time. The reason is simple. My mum loved it. My mum died when I was 15, and I don't think I will ever quite move on, some 12 years later. It's so horrible to lose a parent, especially when they're the parent you get along with best. The first time I watched Singin' In the Rain was with Mum, on the ABC one Friday night. I think she was making me comb her hair at the time. But we stopped and just sat and enjoyed the film, and honestly, I think it was the most fun film I'd ever seen - and Gene Kelly, what a fox! People often ask; what's your favourite film of all time? And knowing study film, they're expecting something pretentious and/or foreign and/or obscure. So they're always surprised when I say Singin' In The Rain. But the only criteria for favourite film is: does it remind you of someone? Does it make you happy? Is it fun to watch? Three definite yay's to those.

The Philadelphia Story - The ABC really did change my life. Daria and I Love Lucy after school, Rage and Recovery Saturday and Sunday mornings, The Late Show on Saturday nights. And all Aunty's done for me since then. It bought this little gem to me. I had always admired Katharine Hepburn, but this movie made me love her. It's clever and funny and the cast is champagne cinema: Ms. Hepburn, Cary Grant, and James Stewart. It's about a very stubborn socialite, Tracey. She's kicked her ex-husband out, and is remarrying. Meanwhile, she and the rest of her family have shut her father out of the house for the impending nuptials for his infidelity. Add to this two tabloid journalists sent in to get as much dirt on Tracey as they can, under the guise of wanting to cover the wedding for a lifestyle magazine. I haven't seen a lot of Cukor films, but if they're all as expertly handled as this one, then the man was a genius. And hey, he did make The Women and It's a Wonderful Life. There are some pretty choice lines, such as Cary Grant's observation that all writers are alcoholics, and proceeding to wish that he was a writer. But I think the best part is when Hepburn and Stewart get drunk and flirt with one another - some of the best drunk acting I've ever seen in my life. The message of the film is a little ambivalent (there's a hint of the need to put a strong woman in her place),but in the end, as intellectual equals, we all know Hepburn and Grant belong together. And it's all the sweeter when they realise this too.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off - So many things to love, I think my brain will explode if I think about them too much. For some reason, I love films set over a short period of time - like The Breakfast Club, which takes place entirely during a Saturday detention, or Dazed and Confused, which takes place on the last day of school before summer break. And the idea that you can live a lifetime in one day of wagging school is an appealing one. Oh, and young Matthew Broderick - BABE.

Pulp Fiction - I love the way the story unfolds, I love the colour of it, and I love the dialogue and the music. And deep down, the reasons I think it's amazing are the same reasons why I love it. I am a film critic, after all.

Vertigo - It's the romantic cinematography that allows for that feeling of unease to spread through your bones throughout the film, it's the score, but mostly...it's Kim Novak as Madeleine Elster and Edith Head's costume design.

Manhattan - It was so close between this and Annie Hall, but this won out. I love that the lighting is so dark that you can often only make out one character at a time. I love that Allen uses the frame to suggest Isaac's almost subconscious attempts to sabotage all of his relationships - there's a scene in which Isaac, his teenage girlfriend Tracy, his friend Yale and his mistress Mary are walking down the street talking. Mary's control of the conversation and Isaac's unconscious attraction to her is executed perfectly as Isaac is literally pushing Tracy out of the frame and allowing Mary to move into his onscreen space. But what made it pip Annie Hall to the post? The line, 'the winner of the Zelda Fitzgerald Emotional Maturity award.'

The Royal Tenenbaums - what I love about all of Wes Anderson's film is that they're about family. And how awkward they can make you feel. And I love that his films really are dramas about incredibly serious people who have no idea they're hilarious. Not only that, but I love the almost cartoonish treatment of the characters. But they don't feel one or two-dimensional at all, which is why I love Anderson so much as a director. His films at times are almost tableaux - the most powerful moments are nearly always these static shots. Oh, and Pagoda. I love Pagoda.

The 40 Year Old Virgin - Underneath this story of a guy who has perhaps gone way too long without getting some of the good stuff, and all the crass jokes, is a story about a man who seems to know more about women without physical contact with them than the men who've been physically intimate them. I think Judd Apatow has realised as long as you write at least one joke about porn, you can sneak a message into a film. Sort of the way mum would sneak tomatoes into our rissoles when we were kids. But I still hate most tomatoes. Similarly, I didn't think Knocked Up was that successful at this.

Hot Fuzz - I have loved Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg for a long, long, long time. It's their love of film and their examination of genre that make me love them. That, and their babe status. Why is this on the list rather than Shaun of the Dead? That's like asking why The Empire Strikes Back is better than A New Hope. Or why Terminator 2: Judgment Day is a more superior film. You still love the fun of the original, but the second is more layered, emotionally complex and darker. And has the line, 'you want to be a big copper in a small town? Fuck off up the model village!'

Amelie - When I first watched this film, I couldn't help but be infuriated by Amelie's whimsy - I thought that if she smiled that special needs child smile one more time, I would scream. But then I was introduced to all of the other wonderful characters in the film, and I appreciated Amelie's strength and independence, I learned to love it. And that scene where she rides the Ghost Train looking for the boy of her dreams? Dear me. Best scene committed to film.

And there you have it. I am a pretentious wanker who would appear to favour almost any cinema over her national one. And loves American film more than any other. Damn.

Pretentious Top Tens

So I came across an insanely pretentious Top Ten on a scenester's blog, and it made me think about the films I think are amazing, and I wonder if they're not just as pretentious?

I personally didn't think someone could actually watch a lot of the films on the list more than once, but I think sometimes the films you think are the best films aren't necessarily the ones that you love and watch all the time. For me, these top tens would be very different.

To demonstrate this, I will give you the list of my top ten best films, and my favourite films.

Top Ten Best Films

Citizen Kane (Welles, 1941)
Vertigo (Hitchcock, 1958)
Wild Strawberries (Bergman, 1957)
Pulp Fiction (Tarantino, 1994)
Breathless (Godard, 1960)
Taxi Driver (Scorsese, 1976)
Crimes and Misdemeanors (Allen, 1989)
Rashomon (Kurosawa, 1950)
No Country For Old Men (Coen Brothers, 2007)
Mystic River (Eastwood, 2003)

11th on the list (Hottest 100 does it, so why can't I?)
Chungking Express (Wong, 1994)
Badlands (Malick, 1973)

They're tied - couldn't decide.

Very almost unashamedly American. Almost.

Top Ten Loved Films

Singin' In The Rain (Donen, 1952)
The Philadelphia Story (Cukor, 1940)
Ferris Bueller's Day Off (Hughes, 1986)
Pulp Fiction (Tarantino, 1994)
Vertigo (Hitchcock, 1958)
Manhattan (Allen, 1979)
The Royal Tenenbaums (Anderson, 2001)
The 40 Year Old Virgin (Apatow, 2005)
Hot Fuzz (Wright, 2007)
Amelie (Jeunet, 2001)

11th

The Hangover (Phillips, 2009)
Forgetting Sarah Marshall (Stoller, 2008)

I'm as surprised by you probably are to find that there are common films on both lists. What is interesting, though not that surprising to me, is that the films I think are incredibly powerful either contain violence or carry a threat of implicit violence, or a story of flawed men - or both. Meanwhile, the films I love are mostly comedies, but they too are mostly about deeply flawed men, or contain violence, or both. Luckily, three of them are predominantly about strong, independent, eccentric women.

I really must explore my fascination with representations of masculinity. Which reminds me - Bad Education (Almodovar, 2004) should really be on these lists.

Face of Narcissus feels Nauseated about her apathy.

So I'm almost finished the first of the fiction I've been referring to as 'research' (God, I hope that means I can claim them on tax or something), Emile Zola's The Kill, and the characters are performing a tableaux of the story of Narcissus and Echo. Mention is made of the Liriope, mother of Narcissus. And I had, not brain-freeze, but brainwave.

I was inspired by the Swell Season in my story of the cost of indulgence and the ways in which we use fiction to console ourselves about our life choices, and I've been searching for a protagonist - as I stood on the balcony of the Concert Hall of the Sydney Opera House, overlooking the Harbour surrounded by Sydney's cultural elite, sipping red wine and boutique beer, I felt like I needed a female voice - mostly because I am one, and because so many films have a very dominant male voice (the hangover, etc). I always played Sonia in Mortal Kombat, and I feel this is merely the logical development of my early feminist gaming tendencies.

But I am definitely not setting out to make an Australian Gossip Girl - I can't keep up with the Oedipal drama and high fashion. And I don't want to simply retell the stories I've been reading.

Advice I received last week was figure out what story you want to tell. Extremely good advice. But I also need to know my characters or at the very least, my main character.

I want to explore these ideas of the pursuit of hedonism at all costs, the idle rich, morality, and the way we use fiction to try and balance out the inequaliy we all face in society.

But I forgot someone I really shouldn't have. Jean Paul Sartre. I began reading Nausea and put it down ages ago. Mistake. Because I think I'm feeling this existential nausea. I wanted to explore my apathy toward the world and my interest in, well, mostly my hair. Do I really not care? Is my own life meaningless? What if a person was to suddenly realise that their life is devoid of anything more than an obssession with images. Would it make them feel ill?

And just by seeing that name, Liriope, I knew I had my heroine and a story to tell. Liriope Clifton, socialite, obssessed with nothing but the new, suddenly wonders if her life without meaning? Why can't she bring herself to care about things that other people care about, things that are apparently of substance? Global warming, poverty, inequality, homelessness, etc. Does she belong to a world entirely without a moral compass?

Is she simply worried about an arbitrary societal construct? What does it mean to have a meaningful life? What does it mean if it is all arbitrary?

Perhaps I am just retelling Nausea. But it's fine if I'm reinterpreting it and placing it in a different societal and cultural context?

Meanwhile, can anybody tell me how to find a black wool or felt cloche hat for Autumn/Winter? I'm feeling a roaring 20s look, but with an edge. And by edge I mean wearing jeans.

The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means. -Oscar Wilde

Hello there. It's been a while. You look good, have you lost weight? Oh. Well, your hair looks - oh. Ahem.

I haven't blogged in a while and I sincerely apologise to my large and devoted readership. Just let me dream, will ya? Anyways, I've been writing something with a friend and of course, because I just love the blog, I've been focused on that one and not on this one.

But my mind has been a-tick, tick, tickin' away. If you've read my previous entries, and I just know you have...ahem...you'll know that I've been reading and watching a lot of stories about morality and the soul and the very things that ole Oscar is talking about in this entry's subject. The idea that we use all of these devices to justify our position in life to ourselves. I've been reading a lot about the idle rich and watching what could only be described as a shitload of Gossip Girl and though I'm not sure at this stage which side I'm coming out as being on (do I write something that glamourises high society or do I tread in the same shoes as Wilde, Fitzgerald and co. and write yet another story of the cost of living the high life?), but inspiration has come perhaps the unlikeliest of places: Irish folk music.

I believe I've written before about the ways in which music can inspire a story or a mere image for me, and last night I went to see the Swell Season at the Sydney Opera House. For those of you who have never heard of them, watch the film Once. More than once. What inspired me was a group of artists truly passionate about their art and revelling in it - they were all so happy to be there and it was lovely. And this passionate, meaningful, organic performance seems to be in complete contrast to the kind of story I'm developing, but it made me ask myself what I want to communicate with this project. And their last song really added a new dimension.

It was a traditional Irish song called The Parting Glass. Sung at gatherings and particularly at wakes, the song is about wishing people well. No fear, no regrets, no guilt. At wakes it is sung from the perspective of the corpse. Essentially asking those left behind not to be sad, to let go and just appreciate the time we have on this earth. It was so moving. And I think what I want to say with my project is this: do whatever you want, just make sure it means something to you.

Thoughts, etc?

An Andalusian Dog is a Cemetery Man's Best Friend: The Body in Art Cinema and Horror

There has long been the perception of art cinema and the avant-garde as something belonging to high culture and horror belonging to low culture. Joan Hawkins argues that the relationship between art cinema, experimental film and the avant-garde, and horror or low forms of cinema is much more complicated than that, arguing that “the lines between arthouse (high culture) cinema and trash (exploitation, horror, soft porn etc) have never been as clear-cut...The midnight screenings and “grindhouses… that once enlivened Times Square”... were historically the site where high art and trash cinema commingled in the United States.”i Arthouse cinema or more particularly alternative cinemas to that of the Classical Hollywood Cinema have been always been marked as being outside of traditional cinema and at this level, both art cinema and horror share this position outside the mainstream. It can also be argued that art cinema and horror share the same thematic concerns and demand similar responses from the spectator, particularly in the ways in which both art cinema and horror treat images of the body. Indeed, I first viewed Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali's Un Chien Andalou (1928) and Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon (1943) in a course examining the development of the horror genre. Though this has been met with surprise from academics and fellow students alike, it is not so strange when considering that both art cinema and horror often focus on explorations of the body and its representation onscreen, and often rely on eliciting a bodily response from the spectator. I would argue that it is the main aim of both the avant-garde and art cinema and horror to challenge traditional notions of narrative and therefore provide a space for an alternative experience of the cinema. But the question remains, for what purpose does each cinema achieve this?

Bryan Frye argues that at the heart of experimental filmmaker Stan Brakhage's work, in particular his Pittsburgh Trilogy, is a concern with “with metaphysical questions of Being:”ii

The three films: Eyes, Deus Ex, and The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes, document the police, a hospital and a morgue, respectively. All focus on the mechanics of the body: how it is ordered in life, how it is repaired when broken, and what remains when the person who animates it has perished.iii

The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes has a particular focus on the body. As Frye describes, the film is set in a morgue and chronicles the process of an autopsy. Hawkins suggests that the film “encourages an uncomfortably visceral reaction in the spectator,”iv while Amos Vogel offers a slightly different perspective on the film's subject matter and Brakhage's possible intent with the work, arguing that “[the film] dispassionately records whatever transpires in front of the lens: bodies sliced length-wise, organs removed, skulls and scalp cut open with electrical tools.”v While the camera may be recording dispassionately, Brakhage, arguably, is not and demands a similarly passionate response from the viewer, especially if, if Frye is correct, Brakhage sought to represent in his work not reality, but the act of perceiving the world. A spectator of The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes is surely being asked to meditate on the human condition, to bear witness to the decay of the body. While this may not be quite the same intent of the horror film, there is still a focus on the decay of the body, with a demand that the spectator contemplate the demise of their own body.

Many of Brakhage's films, including The Dead (1960) and Sirius Remembered (1959), reflect on the decay of the body, and what happens after we die. The Dead, filmed in Le Cimitiere du Père Lachaise in Paris, uses images from the tombs of the dead, while Sirius Remembered uses images of the decay of a family dog after its death. In what way does Brakhage's analyses of death and decay echo the horror film's analysis of the same themes of mortality and human frailty?

In an article published in The Guardian, Shaun of the Dead writer Simon Pegg had this to say on the subject of zombies:

As monsters from the id, zombies win out over vampires and werewolves when it comes to the title of Most Potent Metaphorical Monster. Where their pointy-toothed cousins are all about sex and bestial savagery, the zombie trumps all by personifying our deepest fear: death. Zombies are our destiny writ large. Slow and steady in their approach, weak, clumsy, often absurd, the zombie relentlessly closes in, unstoppable, intractable.vi

While Pegg may not be relating this from a perspective of art cinema, what he is suggesting echoes Frye's analysis of Brakhage's Pittsburgh Trilogy – the exploration of death and the decay of the body, and the question of what happens after we die. Not only that, but both Brakhage's films and zombie films such as Edgar Wright's Shaun of the Dead (2004), George A. Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968) and Michele Soavi's Dellamorte Dellamore (1994) reveal our fear of death and the complex relationship we have to our body – the desire to, and simultaneous fear of, witnessing the body in decay. Not only that, but they also offer an insight into the rituals and processes involved in death. For example, in Romero's film there is a theme of the improper attitude toward the dead – the film opens with a brother and sister visiting the grave of their father. The brother's lack of respect for his father's memory results in his attack by a member of the undead, resulting in him cracking his skull on a tombstone. More than anything else, for the spectator at least, the zombie film is characterised by the human fear of death, and of seeing our mortality and that of our loved ones, but as R.H.W Dillard notes:

The idea of the dead's return to a kind of life is no new idea; it is present in all the ancient tales of vampires and ghouls and zombies, and it has been no stranger to films...All these tales and films spring from that ancient fear of the dead.vii

As Brakhage's films and their release prior to Romero's Night of the Living Dead will attest, it is not simply Hollywood or even narrative cinema in general that has examined these themes of death and mortality – as an alternative to narrative cinema, the art film can engage directly with the spectator on these themes and privilege emotion and sensation rather than the intellectual processes of film spectatorship. However, as Kyle Bishop points out, the zombie is primarily a visual manifestation of the human fear of mortality, and thus can engage the spectator in a similar way to that of Brakhage and his peers, arguing that “because zombies do not speak, all their intentions and activities are manifested solely through physical action. In other words, because of this sensual limitation, zombies must be watched.”viii What Bishop suggests is that because the zombie is limited to the sensual, so must the spectator. There is virtually nothing to do but watch the degradation of the human body, and watch it attack the living as an extreme metaphor for mortality. Again, this echoes Frye's estimation of the images in Brakhage's The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes:

The key image of The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes is quite likely the bluntest statement on the human condition ever filmed. In the course of an autopsy, the skin around the scalp is slit with a scalpel, and in preparation for exposing and examining the brain, the face of each cadaver is literally peeled off, like a mask, revealing the raw meat beneath. That image, once seen, will never leave you.ix

Not only that, but Brakhage also limits his images to the realm of sensation, by not using sound in these particular films. Once again, both the zombie film and Brakhage's exploration of the body both demand a purely visual and emotional response from the spectator at the sight of the body's decay. Though one is placed within a traditional narrative framework, the slow-moving advance of a silent being onscreen arguably disrupts the narrative and goes beyond it – as it asks for nothing more than a sensational response.

Michael Koller writes that within his work, Luis Buñuel reveals perhaps an intention to “shock and insult the intellectual bourgeoisie.”x The film opens with the title Il etait une fois (Once Upon a Time), then we cut to the image of a barber, played by Buñuel himself, sharpening a razor. He walks outside and looks up at the full moon. We then cut to the barber holding a woman's head in place. Drawing the razor up to her eye, he holds it open. Then, we cut to the full moon being sliced by a cloud, and it seems the spectator can make the assumption that the slicing of the woman's eye will not be shown, the cloud cutting the moon acting as the visual metaphor for what is about to happen to her. Instead, Buñuel cuts back to an extreme close-up of the woman's eye as the razor slices through it, spilling open the contents. It is also worth noting that the eye slicing, for all intents and purposes, is real. Buñuel used a dead calf's eye in place of the woman. This is also not the only scene to feature dead animals – in a later scene a man drags a grand piano piled with dead donkeys.

While this opening image is indeed shocking in its immediacy and proximity to reality, and many fellow students loudly exclaimed with shock and surprise during the viewing in our class on the horror film, there is also another dimension to this scene in the film. This is the boundary between the the body that is seen, and the body that is unseen. There are films in which this boundary is revealed to be flimsy at best and nonexistent at worst. Clover argues that this is also part of the fascination audiences have with the horror film, citing examples from Tobe Hooper's The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974):

Beyond that, the slasher evinces a fascination with flesh or meat itself as that which is hidden from view. When the hitchhiker in Texas Chainsaw 1 slits open his hand for the thrill, the onlookers all recoil in horror – all but Franklin, who seems fascinated by the realisation that all that lies between the visible, knowableoutside of the body and its secret insides is one thin membrane, protected only by a collective taboo against its violation. It is no surprise that the rise of the slasher film is concomitant with the development of special effects that let us see with our own eyes the opened body.xi

Clover argues that the horror film and the slasher film in particular has opened up a new way of seeing the unseen – and that this has changed the way spectators regard depictions of violence onscreen, arguing that in the modern horror film “we see heads being stepped on so that the eyes pop out, a face being flayed, a decapitation, a hypodermic needle penetrating an eyeball in close-up, and so on.”xii Indeed, it appears that she can also add 'eyeballs being sliced with a razor' to the list. She argues that this is a new trend within the cinema and especially the horror film, and that these advances in technology engender a new, more complex spectator response:

With this new explicitness also comes a new tone. If the horror of Psycho was taken seriously, the “horror” of the slasher films is of a rather more complicated sort. Audiences express uproarious disgust (“gross!”) as often as they express fear, and it is clear that the makers of slasher films pursue the combination.xiii

While Clover's main focus is on the development of the horror film and the pattern of representation of gender within it, she may have overlooked that this phenomenon in film is not limited to the horror film, and neither is it mutually exclusive with advancements in special effects technologies. In 1928, Buñuel and Dali were employing the same techniques that later makers of the slasher film would employ, and it is an effect still experienced in the present. Koller argues that the opening image of Un Chien Andalou is still shocking today, and the reaction of my classmates in the viewing of the film would seem to testify to this. This onscreen fascination with revealing the inner workings of the body produces a particular effect in the spectator and again, the kinds of audience response to these images in both art films such as The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes and Un Chien Andalou in particular is again linked inextricably to the horror film.

In her article 'Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, Excess,' Linda Williams relates that she and her young son look to view films that “promise to be sensational, to give our bodies an actual physical jolt.”xiv These are films often categorised as being 'gross', and she identifies these 'gross' films as belonging to a wider genre she calls body genres. These are films that trade almost exclusively on images designed to elicit a bodily response from the spectator:

What are the pertinent features of bodily excess shared by ...'gross' genres? First, there is the spectacle of a body caught in the grip of intense sensation or emotion...The body spectacle is featured most sensationally in pornography's portrayal of the orgasm, in horror's portrayal of violence and terror, and in the melodrama's portrayal of weeping.xv

For Williams, what separates these genres from other film genres that elicit a physical response from the spectator, such as comedy, is the idea that there is too much emphasis on the physical response on the spectator, and indeed too much emphasis on the spectacle of the body, and this is why they are deemed 'gross': their focus on sensation rather than narrative is what evokes disgust. Not only this, but Williams argues that because of this, spectators feel manipulated by body genre films – they feel they are being, in effect, forced to have an emotional and bodily connection to the images onscreen.xvi

One may suggest, from this, that while avant-garde filmmakers such as Brakhage, Buñuel, Dali, and Deren may on the surface reflect the same thematic concerns and engagement with the spectator as makers of horror films such as Romero, Pegg, Wright, and Hooper, the intention is completely different; artist filmmakers do not seek to manipulate the spectator, but only ask for an alternate way of experiencing the cinema. As Joan Hawkins notes, so the argument goes that films like The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes “use sensational material differently than many body genre films do...[and] are deemed to have a higher cultural purpose, and certainly a different artistic intent.”xvii The first response to that argument is that in the study of spectatorship the emphasis is on the way in which the spectator interprets the images, and not an examination of the intent of the filmmaker. And whether the artistic intent or cultural purpose is different or not, as Joan Hawkins observes, film audiences tend to feel similarly toward art cinema as they do toward horror:

Clearly designed to break the audience's aesthetic distance, the films encourage the kind of excessive physical response that we would generally attribute to horror. Furthermore, their excessive visual force...mark them as subversive. Banned, marginalised through being screened exclusively in museums and classrooms, these are films that most mainstream film patrons will never see.xviii

And while the former is elevated to a higher cultural status than the latter, film audiences traditionally feel a certain amount of frustration with both, because of their existence outside the boundaries of narrative. They are both either banned from public theatres, or restricted to viewing in galleries. Both can be difficult to access for people interested in these films. This frustration with the art film's apparent refusal to have an easily accessible meaning or structure would arguably lead to a similar feeling of manipulation or disgust with the images the spectator is presented with.

Buñuel and Dali both argue that Un Chien Andalou is a conscious attempt to reject meaning, with Buñuel himself stating that “our only rule was very simple: No idea or image that might lend itself to a rational explanation of any kind would be accepted.” Buñuel went even further, explaining that “We had to open all doors to the irrational and keep only those images that surprised us, without trying to explain why.”xix This statement is interesting, because when it comes to the cinema and the spectator, it is almost impossible for the consumer of an image not to attempt to make meaning from the images, despite the aim of the producer of the image. The simple act of viewing a film involves deriving meaning from a set of seemingly randomly assembled images. What causes perhaps an alternative viewing experience when the spectator views a film such as Un Chien Andalou is the refusal of the film's images to allow for meaning or narrative structure, and the spectator's natural desire to derive meaning from the images. Koller asserts that due to the nature of the film and the intent of filmmakers Buñuel and Dali, the film is “open to a myriad of interpretations, rendering such analyses redundant.”xx

The film appears to provide a space in which to contemplate two aspects of the cinema and its engagement with the spectator; the desire to see the unseen, and the extent to which a film can evoke a response from the spectator at a bodily level. The experience of viewing Un Chien Andalou is apart from that of a narrative film, and this is heightened, perhaps ironically, through the use of the conventional editing techniques of narrative cinema, most notably, devices for the structuring of time (titles such as Once Upon a Time, and 8 Years Later). Dali asserts that the aim of the film is “to disrupt the mental anxiety of the spectator,” and we can already see that the film demands a particular kind of viewing experience separate from traditional narrative films.xxi The film demands an emotional and bodily response, as an intellectual response is refused at all points both within the film and by the filmmakers themselves. In this way, the link between the film and horror is clear. These techniques all serve to evoke a response from the spectator that deals primarily in sensation, not interpretation.

Williams notes that all forms of cinema are characterised by their opposition to conventional narrative cinema:

The repetitive formulas and spectacles of film genres are often defined by their differences from the classical realist style of narrative cinema. These classical films have been characterised as efficient action-centred, goal-oriented linear narratives driven by the desire of a single protagonist, involving one or two lines of action, and leading to definitive closure.xxii

Both art cinema and horror films most often operate outside of the 'classical realist style of narrative cinema.' In this regard we can consider them as belonging to a cinema with an alternative system of constructing meaning from sets of images. Both art films such as The Act of Seeing With One's Own Eyes and Un Chien Andalou and horror films such as Night of the Living Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre use images of the body in order to challenge the spectator and evoke an alternative response from them. According to Aristotle, "objects which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies."xxiii All of the aforementioned films use the reality of the body in such a way as to allow the spectator to witness and reflect on mortality and the unseen parts of the body and in that way also push the boundaries between the cinema screen and the audience. And as Hawkins argues, these can be used to both “challenge and titillate:”xxiv

...one kind of audience pleasure – doesn't necessarily preclude the other. It is possible for someone to be intellectually challenged and physically titillated; and it is possible for someone to simultaneously enjoy both the intellectual and physical stimulation.xxv

Arguably, it is a testament to the power of alternative forms of cinema such as art cinema and body genres such as horror that they can produce both of these sensations in a way that stands apart from the more traditional forms of cinema, and this goes beyond questions of high and low culture and perhaps even gender, as it is a phenomenon that takes place entirely in the body of the spectator engaging with the images onscreen. The images these films produce must not only be watched – they must be felt, too.

So....there are endnotes, but I can't copy them on my computer. They will be here soon, promise.

I. Need. To. Know.

For a while now, possibly the greatest defence of the cinema and graphic novels has remained in literature form. Never has a novel been better suited to a visual rendering than The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and yet there is hardly any info on a film version. But then, I found this.

If this is true, a note to the director currently attached to the project:

DON'T FUCK IT UP. KTHNX.

If you haven't already, please read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon. Buy it. You need it. We alllll need it.

He was handsomer than anybody I'd ever met. He looked just like James Dean.

Last year Russh magazine combined two of my favourite things: Badlands and clothes. Disappointed they used a blonde model to play Holly but I'm still in love:



One of the best things ever. Tried to rip it off in my film, but had to cut the scene that paid homage to Malick's pure brilliance.



Bless.

Hmmmm...

In my quest to be cynical and mortified by Hollywood remakes (and check for awesome pictures of Robert Downey, Jr - can you say 'New Johnny Depp?'), I stumbled across Empire Magazine's list of The 50 Worst Movies Ever Made.

The number one is pretty bad, but when I think of bad movies, I think of ones that I've hated as soon as they started, or bad dialogue, or you can see the ghost of an amazing film hovering around the bad film. It doesn't necessarily mean the film is poorly made or the acting is unconvincing - it usually means the storyline is weak or the style the director has employed doesn't suit the narrative.

My number one for this list will always be Tony Scott's Domino (2005). See above paragraph for why. Did really love Keira Knightley's haircut, though.

Thoughts, etc?

Boats and Ho's

So. I'm in the middle of writing this amazing blog about what I like to call the 'bromantic comedy' and what it reveals about representations of masculinity onscreen and particularly representations of heterosexual masculinity. I wasn't always in the middle - last night, after weeks of thinking about it, random moments for the last two years when I thought it might be an interesting subject to pursue after I wrote an essay on traditional representations of masculinity and couldn't find any literature that actually spelled them out, choosing instead to shout MASCULINITY IS IN CRISIS. Ha, yeah. It is. Because instead of tracing the historical development of representations of masculinity in film people have just been using it as the norm and defining everything else around it. Silly gooses.

I had an awesome lead-in quote from Robin Wood about critically analysing films from all different approaches to discover all the ways in which the film is communicating particular ideologies. I used the theory that everyone derives based on Joe Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces - you know, in Western civilisation the initiation rituals other cultures have for adolescent boys to transition into manhood have been, for want of a better way to say it, replaced with the myth of the quest and how these myths are proliferated through films like Star Wars - essentially, society in effect learns how to interact on a social level through popular culture and subsequently that means that we get most of our cultural and social information from the cinema.

Aaaaaannnnndddddd.....back to the whole masculinity thing. I'm seeing a whole bunch of films that seem to be expressing this confusion over representations of masculinity. What they suggest to me is that these films appear to suggest that heterosexual men don't know how they're supposed to act and these representations of masculinity are confused, which may make straight dudes even more confused? Sure, there is one genre of film that doesn't seem to be confused about heterosexual masculinity, but I think they make it even more confusing - well, I watched one example recently Crank 2 with Jason Statham. It both sucked and blowed. I'd be offended if I was a guy.

Maybe it's just as confusing for women, but I feel that there is a lot of film and television that present a confusion on the part of heterosexual men and the way they're supposed to behave, particularly around each other. It manifests itself in a lot of gay jokes and similar (watch the 'you know how I know you're gay?' scene in the 40 Year Old Virgin for an incredibly obvious example), but a lot of films that present male relationships in interesting ways.

Cue awesome analyses of Superbad and I Love You, Man and how they seem to be in a genre I like to call the bromantic comedy. I Love You, Man in particular seems to be about how heterosexual men negotiate the balance between relationships with their partner and with other men. And this film, to me, represents the way two men developing a friendship can be just as awkward and intense as developing a sexual relationship - and heterosexual men always seem to be ill at ease at the thought that their feelings toward other heterosexual men are being mistaken for sexual desire. I love this film because it seems entirely aware of this constant state of confusion and tension that guys live in sometimes.

And I talked about this moment in Superbad where Evan and Seth profess their love for each other and how the film sort of suggests that their relationship is becoming too codependent and it's time to move on with girls. But there's this look between them at the end that suggests that they're aware that they'll probably never be as close as they were ever again.

And now, photos of bro-love from each film:





AWESOME. Yeah, except that after working on it for two days, I was logged in to a different email address to the one I use for this blog and I....LOST IT. I finished it, went to publish and it wouldn't do it - was unable to process my request. Fuck you, motherfucker! And when I went back to the last-saved draft, it was just after I'd written a synopsis of the plot of I Love You, Man. How the fuck am I supposed to use that to go on to my awesome, awesome theory?!? Hence, this lazy version of the sheer brilliance I produced last night.

"I love you, man": The Bromantic Comedy

Oh. Em. JESUS.

I was going through my posts and I discovered I'd written a little about the bromance in film before (I recently wrote a list of the best ones in honour of Robert Pattinson needing a good bro in the wake of his embarrassingly public cuckolding at the hands of Kristen Stewart and Ruper Sanders.

I wrote this ages ago and for some reason it didn't post and I was devastated and too tired to start again so I wrote another post about it all (how self-reflexive) and I. JUST. FUCKING. FOUND. IT.

I also noticed that I didn't even finish it. Geez. And I also noticed that I thought I was the first person to use the term 'romantic comedy.' What a fucking moron.

Here goes:

One of the main theses of the late, great Robin Wood was that the goal of critical film analysis was to examine a film from more than approach, in order "to suggest something of the complex interaction of ideology, genre, and personal authorship that determines the richness, the density of meaning, of the great Hollywood masterpieces."

And I think that ole Woodsy was onto something, and not only that, I think there is a meaning to be found within not just the great Hollywood masterpieces, but also some of the recent 'blockbusters' and films considered 'below' the high purpose of critical analysis - I believe in my very half-hearted research into something one of my lecturers once told the class I stumbled upon an article championing indie films over blockbusters because it was so difficult to apply Wood's approach to formulaic and repetitive commercial films. Pretty sure Wood would turn in his grave if he knew - considering the Hollywood films theorists like Bordwell, Thompson and his good self developed a particular set of patterns and formulas to communicate certain ideologies. Massive fail for you, modern film critic.

You may have noticed recently that there have been more than a few films that would initially present themselves as 'guy movies.' My examples are films like Step-Brothers, Role Models, Superbad, The Hangover, and I Love You, Man. Films that feature little to no female characters, and if there any they're either screaming harpies hellbent on crushing the male characters' soul or objects of sexual obssession.

But are they really? On the one hand you could argue that yes, these women are symbols of the hideously narrow view of femininity, but if we stick with Wood's way of thinking, the message being communicated is one primarily for the men watching the film; a way of showing the male audience member the most desirable heterosexual union - in layman's terms: This is the wrong kind of girl, this is the right kind of girl. Which brings me back to why I was investigating my admiration for Wood - the thing my lecturer David Boyd told our class once. I wish I could remember who he was talking about - it may have been Wood - that every Hollywood film was about the reformation of the couple. Every single genre, this argument goes, is essentially a romance.

And yes, almost all Hollywood films feature a (let's face it) heterosexual union, no matter what the plot or genre, but this isn't really what this argument is referring to. If you look closely at a lot of films, the main line of action involves two characters meeting in an interesting manner (what we call 'the cute meet'), often hating each other immediately. But through the course of the film, they learn to value one another and become united. Does this sound familiar?

It's not just the plot of every romantic comedy, it's the plot of Lethal Weapon. On the director's commentary of Hot Fuzz, Edgar Wright mentions that in the original script the character of Danny Butterman had a girlfriend, but in the end they decided the relationship between Nick and Danny was more important and scenes that were originally between Danny and his girlfriend sort of became incorporated into the scenes between Nick and Danny. And to me, it's a very deliberate decision.

One way to read these films is to look for the obvious homosexual subtext. And that is a perfectly valid analysis, one that I would like to research in the context of these films. But what interests me at the moment is the way in which these films seem to be expressing something about male relationships to a male audience.

The films that interest me the most, or the ones that seem to lend themselves rather well to this term 'bromantic comedy' (god, I hope I invented this)are Step-Brothers, Superbad, Pineapple Express, and of course I Love You, Man. The latter film is essentially the blueprint for the generic conventions of the Bromantic Comedy.

I should probably stop just reading the first section of Daniel Chandler's An Introduction to Genre Theory and actually read it properly before I research this further, because as he observes, "the attempt to define
particular genres in terms of necessary and sufficient textual properties is sometimes seen as theoretically attractive but
it poses many difficulties. For instance, in the case of films, some seem to be aligned with one genre in content and
another genre in form." So while it would be tempting to group these films together and pretend I've invented (or at the very least identified) a new genre, I must first ask; what are the common themes, devices, stylistic choices that bring all of these films under one umbrella? The magic Bromantic Comedy umbrella?

Well, Mr Chandler and members of the filmgoing public, I shall tell you. Well, I'll try, anyway. And I must point out that because this is a blog and not my PhD thesis, I'm being really lazy and just spewing forth random wisdom. And as you may have guessed, not referencing academically. But shout outs to Robin Wood, Chandler and of course, my secret boyfriend (so secret he and his wife know nothing about me), David Bordwell for making me the lazy writer on film I have become.

The common theme is pretty apparent - all of these films focus on the relationship between men. Or teenage boys becoming men in the case of Superbad. Superbad is sort of an interesting point of comparison with I Love You, Man, actually because each film deals with a lack in a male character's life in completely opposite ways. The second thing that unites these films, I Love You, Man and Stepbrothers, more so than Superbad, and I Love You, Man most of all, is its adherence to the generic conventions of the Romantic Comedy.

I Love You, Man, directed by John Hamburg, is most unashamedly a romantic comedy. It's just the couple united at the end that's different. The story is essentially this; Peter, played by Paul Rudd, gets engaged to his girlfriend, Zooey (Rashida Jones). When she tells all of her friends about the happy news and discovers Peter doesn't really have anyone to tell, she realises that he doesn't have any male friends and subsequently no best man. So Peter decides he needs to find a best man for his wedding. After a serious of tragic meetings that seem more like disastrous blind dates than attempts to find mates, Peter finally meets Sydney (Jason Segel) and a friendship begins to bloom.

A Prayer

While I do believe that The Prayer by Bloc Party is the most super awesome superhero getting in the zone music, it's also inspiring my current need to write a public plan; a Mandatory to-do List for my very own soul.

* Write my next blog about films in a genre that I would like to tentatively dub the Brom-Com (bromance films, or bromantic comedies).

* Get started on all of these 'upcoming' projects.

* Look into doing a podcast.

* Help found a film society/film festival thing.

* I will not let full time work, post-uni blues or reverse culture shock distract me - my credit card can't take it.

* I will use aforementioned full time work to save like a motherfucker and piss off to New York with a view to an internship.

But for now it's waiting on my Topshop and Urban Outfitters purchases and going for my consultation with the hairdressers for my hair extensions.