The Films of 2017: The Big Sick

Those familiar with the work of Judd Apatow (Knocked Up, This Is 40, Funny People) will recognize his influence on The Big Sick: even though Apatow is only a producer on the film, which is directed by alt-comedy maven Michael Showalter and co-written by Khumail Nanjiani and Emily V. Gordon, his influence looms large.  Like Apatow’s better films, The Big Sick is a big-hearted, snappy, occasionally digressive comedy about juggling family, work, and love in modern America.  It’s made unique by the culturally specific comedic voice of Nanjiani, playing himself as a fledgling stand-up comic hustling in Chicago and trying to keep his matchmaking mother at bay (his parents, both Pakistani immigrants, insist that he marry a good Muslim girl).  Khumail’s situation gets complicated when he falls for an adorably wonky psychology student named Emily, played by Zoe Kazan (a latter-day Annie Hall to his Alvy Singer); things get more complicated still when she undergoes hospitalization for a severe infection and he is forced to bond awkwardly with her distressed parents, played by Ray Romano and Holly Hunter.  The film’s deployment of familiar rom-com conventions—break-ups and make-ups and montage sequences of the rituals of coupledom—is rounded out by its willingness to look beyond the vantage point of its central couple in order to consider other relationships and other conflicts, with both sets of parents acting as foils for Khumail and Emily. 


The long and winding road

Hunter (Hunter Carson) and Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) on opposite sides of the street in Paris, Texas (1984).

I celebrated Father’s Day this weekend by re-watching Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas (1984), a movie that arguably sports one of the loveliest and gentlest father-son relationships in cinema.  Harry Dean Stanton’s Travis, who has been absent for half the length of his seven-year-old son Hunter’s life, spends the second act of the movie slowly regaining Hunter’s trust, like someone trying to coax a spooked cat out from under a bed (abandoned by both his mother and father, Hunter has been raised by his uncle and aunt, played by Dean Stockwell and Aurore Clement, whom he has come to regard as his parents).  In one of the many scenes in the film that brings tears to my eyes, Travis sets out to win Hunter’s admiration by dressing up like a dude and walking him home from school, and Hunter, impressed but shy, walks home on the opposite side of the street until finally Travis crosses over to Hunter’s side and the two continue to walk home together, framed in a shot that is all the more powerful for being wordless and static.  The seeds of their reconciliation have been sown in a previous scene in which they watch home movies shot before Travis’ absence—the nuclear family unit still intact.  By the time the home movie ends, Hunter has slowly crept from his position in the corner of the living room to the edge of the couch where Travis sits, father and son brought together by their shared gaze at the screen.  

Family viewing: father and son share a gaze.

Travis is both good father and bad father, deadbeat and hero and, ultimately, enigma: a figure for parenthood riven with mistakes and redeemed by love.  Stanton has never given another performance this staggeringly good, nor has he ever been given the opportunity to do so; a venerable character actor, Paris, Texas marks one of the only times he’s been asked to carry an entire 145-minute film, and he does so effortlessly.  (It’s impossible to imagine another actor playing this role.)  His laconic acting style is perfectly suited to the poetry of Sam Shepard’s screenplay.  Stanton’s face is weathered and drawn—he was nearly sixty when he made the film—but there is immense kindness there, and Travis comes to life, however briefly, at the memory of his lost happiness, captured in flickers in the home movies he watches with Hunter.  Stanton has never been so affecting as he is in the final scenes of Paris, Texas, in which Travis confronts his estranged wife Jane (Nastassja Kinski) through the two-way mirror of a Houston peep-show booth.  In the pair of monologues that structure these scenes, Stanton and Kinski—and Shepard and Wenders—take the movie to emotional territory that’s so unfamiliar and unpredictable it feels mind-bending.  Stanton’s Travis is in many ways as unknowable at the end as he is at the beginning, when he’s first seen silently wandering through the Mojave Desert. But in the interim we’ve been shown the vast reserves of hauntedness that he carries around with him like invisible weight, just behind those heavy, sad eyes.  Paris, Texas is a road movie in which the journey isn’t so much about traveling the distance between Texas and California as it is about slowly filling in (some of) the gaps in Travis’ long and winding backstory.

Jane (Nastassja Kinski) and Travis reunited.


M is for...

Metropolis, modernism, montage.  I recently got around to watching the 2010 restoration of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) on Blu-ray, a cut of the film that restored some twenty-five minutes of footage, long thought to be lost forever, which was discovered in Buenos Aires in 2008.  Even in its earlier form the film was already a modernist masterpiece, a science-fiction parable set in a dystopian city-as-world: above ground millionaire businessmen and their sons lead lives of indolent luxury while faceless masses toil in subterranean factories.  The film both glamorizes the modern city and reflects anxieties about how it runs.  It opens with an arresting montage sequence of chugging pistons and spinning wheels, and it ends with images of urban pandemonium—exploding machines and flooded streets.  The gleam and power of modern urban space are rendered sublime in Metropolis—awesome and terrifying.  The film could be called a sublime piece of modernist architecture in itself, a towering achievement built out of massive sets and cutting-edge special effects.

Marxism, machines, mass revolution.  The politics of Metropolis are fascinating and notoriously convoluted.  It indiscriminately mixes socialist and religious ideology (the saintlike Maria preaches the gospel of Marxism and Christianity from a makeshift sanctuary in an underground catacomb), never minding Marx’s quip about religion being the opiate of the masses.  And even as the figures of bourgeois capitalism are villainized, there’s more than a little of Nietzsche in the film’s idea that society can only be saved by an enlightened member of the upper classes (namely, the liberal humanist Freder Frederson); left to their own devices, the proletariat is nothing but a mass of rowdy, self-destructive children.  Lang himself would later blame the film’s reductive and sentimental catchphrase—“the heart must act as a mediator between the head and the hands”—on his wife and screenwriter, Thea von Harbou. 

Mad scientist.  The “Machine Man” Rotwang has crazy hair and bug eyes, lives in a witch’s hut, toils to create a female cyborg in the image of his lost love.  In his laboratory, with its foaming beakers and glowing electric coils, are the seeds of a million sci-fi derivations, from Bride of Frankenstein and Re-Animator to Weird Science and Ex Machina.    

Maria, misogyny.  The figure of Maria demonstrates the film’s overlaying of Christian ideology, Marxist philosophy, and the conventions of a romantic adventure plot.  She is a religious figure, a revolutionary, and a love interest for Freder.  She is also a figure for the dual nature of woman as seen through the distorting lens of patriarchy: good girl/bad girl, virgin/whore, damsel and distress/witch.  The film ends with a clinch between the “true” Maria and Freder while the “false” Maria burns at a stake.  And there are fewer sequences in film more clear-eyed about the patriarchal unconscious than the one in which the false Maria—performing in Metropolis’ Orientalized red-light district, Yoshiwara—gyrates before an audience of men as they pant and seethe with lust and rage.



Ma vie en Cherbourg

Christmas in Cherbourg: Genevieve (Catherine Deneuve) and Guy (Nino Castelnuovo) reunited.

Première partie: December 1998.  I receive a VHS copy of Jacques Demy’s The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964), a Christmas present.  I’ve never seen the film before but I’m aware that it’s something of a classic, and that every word of its dialogue is sung.  I watch it on the 13” TV in my bedroom and, moony teenager that I am, I find myself moved to tears by the final scene—Genevieve and Guy meeting at the gas station at Christmas, snow falling through the black night around them.  I want to live in the world of this movie.  Every object, every space in it seems to my adolescent imagination perfect: the coziness of the magasin, the vases of flowers in the Emery apartment, the affects on Genevieve’s dressing table.  The colors of the film don’t feel oppressive or strange—they feel charming and lovely.  At first I am jarred by the sung dialogue, especially the blare of jazz with which it begins in the mechanic’s shop.  But I am soon enraptured by it, and I cry for the lovers, cruelly ripped apart by circumstance.  For me at fourteen, barely out of puberty, love is something that only exists in the movies.                

The magasin as a space of color and fantasy.

Douxième partie: January 2005.  College friends invite me to a French film party.  Everyone is supposed to bring a French film to share.  I bring a DVD copy of Umbrellas along with a boy I have just begun dating—my first.  He has a pierced nipple and wears a hemp necklace braided with rainbow-colored beads.  We watch at my friend’s apartment and drink cheap wine out of tumblers. My friends giggle at the movie—the singing, the colors, the broadness of the emotion.  They also giggle at my date; they can see he’s all wrong for me.  He and I break up a few weeks later.  After many years I look him up on Facebook and see that he’s married now, living somewhere I can’t remember.        

Lover's vows: "I will wait for you"

Troisième partie: November 2014.  I buy Criterion’s new box set of Jacques Demy films on Blu-ray and I’m eager to watch Umbrellas with my live-in boyfriend, a musician.  “This director is gay, right?”, he asks me.  “There’s no way a straight man made this movie.  The entire thing is pink!”  I explain that it’s complicated; Demy came out as bisexual late in life but remained happily married to Agnes Varda until his death of AIDS.  A week or so later he surprises me by bringing home the sheet music to Roland Cassard’s aria (my favorite piece of the film’s score) and begins playing it on our piano as I’m in the kitchen washing dishes.  A year later we’re broken up.  By that time I’ve learned how to play Cassard’s aria on my own.     

Roland Cassard: "Autre fois jai aime une femme..."

Quatrième partie: June 2017.  At a birthday party for a friend, four of us watch Umbrellas after dinner, projected onto a screen via the online streaming service FilmStruck.  There is some laughter at the colors (“that wallpaper!”) and at the film’s more audacious touches, like the shot of Guy and Genevieve gliding down the street as if on a moving walkway.  But I’m just as enraptured by the film as I was as a teenager, and I find myself crying for the lovers in all their beautiful innocence.  I’m single now; watching the final scene I wonder, is Guy happy with Madeleine?  Would he have been happier with Genevieve?  Genevieve’s mother seems to me wiser than she once did—pragmatic and cynical, perhaps, but hardly villainous.  And that final scene doesn’t seem so sad as it once did.  In the world of Jacques Demy, old lovers are lost to time and chance and new lovers are found; the music keeps playing; life goes on; the broken promises of youth (“I will wait for you”) are not so much tragic as they are innocent and beautiful in their fragility; and possibility is always waiting on the other side of heartbreak.

Young love.


"Something magnetic": Time on the rock

I love the moments in Peter Weir’s Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) when time seems to get blurred: they’re catalyzed by the characters’ proximity to the outcropping of the film’s title, where three adolescent girls and their teacher go missing while on a Valentine’s Day picnic.  The closer the characters get to the heart of the rock, which figures as a kind of labyrinth (one character explores it by leaving a pieces of note-paper behind him like a trail of breadcrumbs to mark his path), the more disoriented they, and the film, become.  It is as if their encounters with the rock trigger a tear in the fabric of space and time, a crevasse into which they fall.

Set in Victoria, Australia, at the turn of the century, the film stages the picnic as a symbolic clash of nature and culture, the mystery and danger of the rock standing opposed to the repressive nineteenth-century codes of nearby Appleyard College (a contrast already suggested by William Ford’s painting At The Hanging Rock [1875, below], an inspiration for the 1967 Joan Lindsay novel on which the film is based).  As one of the teachers, Miss McGraw, notes, “The rocks all around, Mount Macedon itself, must be all of 350 million years old.”  Hanging Rock represents the specter of Australia’s pre-colonial past as well as the expanse of geologic time, in the grand scheme of which the lives of the Appleyard girls, and maybe all of human history, are no more than a blip.  The rock also exercises a sexual pull on the girls, who take off their shoes and stockings (and perhaps their corsets) as they venture into its recesses and are swallowed up.  But they go to their deaths serenely, as if in a trance, like the willing participants of some ritual sacrifice.

Weir uses superimpositions and slow motion to convey the sense that time is out of joint on Hanging Rock (the pocket watches of Miss McGraw and others literally stop while they are in its presence—“something magnetic,” Miss McGraw supposes).  The final shots of the film, which are step-printed to almost dizzying effect, culminate in a shot of the angelic, lissome Miranda as if frozen for eternity.  In these moments Picnic at Hanging Rock verges on the psychedelic, and we’re made to realize that the film is as much an experimental film as it is a costume drama. 


In New Mexico with Billy Wilder

"The Mountain of the Seven Vultures"
This weekend I was moved to revisit Billy Wilder’s Ace in the Hole (1951), in which Kirk Douglas plays unscrupulous newspaper writer out to capitalize on the misfortune of a local man trapped in a cave in the middle of the New Mexico desert.  It’s an ingenious film, one of the wickedest that Wilder ever made—sharper and crueler than Double Indemnity, I think, and more scathing than Sunset Boulevard, great as both of those films are.  The sense of place in Ace in the Hole is particularly strong.  Most of the action occurs in the desert outside Albuquerque, where the vastness of the geography almost seems to mock the pettiness and hubris of the men and women moving around on the ground like ants.  The cave in which the local man is trapped is known by the locals as The Mountain of the Seven Vultures; the name both makes reference to scavengers like Douglas’ Charles Tatum and lends a supernatural dimension to the series of unfortunate events that transpire over the course of the film. 

"How!": Kirk Douglas with Iron Eyes Cody.

Tatum himself adopts a supernatural angle when writing his story (“the curse of the Mountain of the Seven Vultures…”), and as hackneyed as this sounds coming from him the film leaves itself open to a similar line of interpretation.  It’s possible to locate Ace in the Hole within a long tradition of films (The Shining, The Manitou, Poltergeist II) about white Americans being haunted by Native American spirits.  Racially, Ace in the Hole is one of Wilder’s most complex films.  Tatum sneers derisively at the Native member of the Albuquerque newspaper staff (played by veteran character actor Iron Eyes Cody), calling him “Geronimo” and reacting with disgust when he offers him a lunch of chicken tacos.  The Mexican mother (Frances Dominguez) of the trapped Leo Minosa moves through the film like a ghost; first seen crying and praying in Spanish, she is—along with Leo’s father—the only person in the film to show legitimate concern for her son’s survival.  In Wilder’s New Mexico, whites and Mexicans and Indians always seem to be orbiting each other nervously.  

Robert Arthur with Frances Dominguez as Mama Minosa.

Wilder’s satire is also attuned to the co-optation of Indian culture and its appeal to white tourists.  For the Federbers—a white family of four on vacation from Gallup—the Minosa saga is as consumable as the Indian headdresses worn by the two boys.  Leo gets trapped in the mountain while in search of Indian artifacts to be sold alongside the “curios” and Navajo blankets advertised at the motor inn.  (It reminds me of a passage from Nabokov, about Humbert and Lolita road-tripping across the American West: “If a roadside sign said VISIT OUR GIFT SHOP—we had to visit it, had to buy its Indian curios, dolls, copper jewelry, cactus candy.  The words ‘novelties and souvenirs’ simply entranced her by their trochaic lilt.”)  Wilder’s vision of the West, like Nabokov’s, is satirical and vaguely eerie, the gas stations and souvenir shops haunted by a people who cannot be owned and dwarfed by a landscape that cannot be known.

The Federber family--with Indian headdresses.


Erich von Stroheim, kinkster

This past weekend I was fortunate enough to see Erich von Stroheim’s Greed (1924) projected in 35mm with live accompaniment at the Somerville Theatre, which is fast becoming one of the best repertory houses the greater Boston area.  (It is, I believe, one of the only theaters in the United States to sport a permanently installed 70mm projection system.)  I don’t think I had seen Greed since the four-hour reconstructed version aired to much fanfare on Turner Classic Movies in 1999.  The film is so obviously a masterpiece that even in its manifold, always-already-imperfect forms (the version screened at the Somerville was the two-hour MGM cut) it is never less than riveting to watch: there were moments during Sunday’s screening when I was so gripped by the sublime weirdness of this movie that I found myself grinning like an idiot.  It invokes the same giddy/crazed feeling that truly great horror movies like The Shining do, along with Paul Thomas Anderson’s better efforts, which I suppose is unsurprising when one considers that Greed is something of a horror movie in its own right, and that Anderson’s There Will Be Blood owes much to it.  

Greed combines the cute regionalism and local color of D. W. Griffith with the perverse fatalism of Lars von Trier (like von Stroheim, another filmmaker who reinvented his own name as an act of self-mythologizing) and the blithe kinkiness of Luis Buñuel.  This film is a vision of America as chock-a-block with grotesque, vicious, scheming, ugly people--outwardly “nice” folks who are all one moment of weakness away from violence and mendacity.  McTeague and Trina (Gibson Gowland and Zasu Pitts) slowly degenerate from gormless young lovers to haggard lowlifes, doubled against the minor characters Maria and Zerkow, who live in what might best be described as Gothic abjection.  (This subplot, which bears some resemblance to the Wegg/Venus/dust-heaps storyline in Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend, was regrettably cut from the two-hour version of the film.)  McTeague’s friend and Trina’s cousin Marcus (Jean Hersholt) is a small-minded nose-picker who wears tacky clothes.  At table, Trina's family members gorge themselves like animals (see below).  It’s significant that one of the film’s sweeter moments occurs when McTeague courts Trina by playing his concertina for her while they sit on a sewer tank.  (Von Stroheim’s Foolish Wives ends with the body of the villain being dumped in a cesspool.)  

Having not read Frank Norris’ McTeague (the novel on which Greed is based), it’s hard to say how much of that cynicism is his and how much is von Stroheim’s.  But it’s worth noting that von Stroheim’s other films are similarly despairing—not to mention similarly keyed in to routines of sadism, masochism, and all manner of kink.  The foot fetishism in The Merry Widow caused censorship problems; Greed itself contains an erotically charged scene in which Trina leans up to kiss McTeague by standing on his boots.  A cut scene from Foolish Wives depicts von Stroheim cross-dressed in stockings and a garter belt, biting Mae Busch’s fingers—a motif that recurs throughout Greed.  His films betray the fetishist’s obsession with uniforms, leather boots, gloves.  And let us not forget that Greed originally contained a scene in which a Trina rubs her hoard of gold coins all over her naked body.  Was the original cut of this film—in addition to being too long—simply too fucked up for MGM to give it its seal of approval?  Even in its butchered form, Greed remains one of the most delightfully nasty films ever to come out of the studio system. 


Wherefore art thou Robin Hood?

Pictured: Olivia de Havilland and Errol Flynn in The Adventures of Robin Hood (dir. Michael Curtiz, 1938).  The opening credits ambiguously state that the film is “based upon ancient Robin Hood legends” (though it most closely draws on the interpretation of those legends by the nineteenth-century writer Howard Pyle); in classic Hollywood fashion, the film also cribs indiscriminately from various other sources, such as Romeo and Juliet, with Flynn and de Havilland doing their own variation on that play’s famous balcony scene.  There’s also a strong Juliet/Nurse dynamic to De Havilland’s scenes with Una O’Connor, the latter playing Bess, Maid Marian’s sharp-tongued but coquettish lady-in-waiting, a comic relief figure with shades of the Wife of Bath (below). 

It’s typical of Hollywood cinema from this period to raid British literature’s back catalog, as it were, for character types and plot devices, inflecting them with a Victorian-era sentimentality and then running them through the wringer of mass culture—to absolutely delightful effect.  Is there a 1930s adventure film more fun than Robin Hood?  Between Flynn’s lascivious eyebrow-waggling and Basil Rathbone’s moustache-twirling and O’Connor’s simpering, mischievous smile the thing is 101 minutes of sheer pleasure.  It sports a veritable feast of character actors: in addition to O’Connor you have Claude Rains as Prince John, Eugene Pallette as Friar Tuck, and Melville Cooper as the Sheriff of Nottingham.  But what’s most appealing about the film is its zippy pacing, sprightly tone and rakish humor.  “He speaks treason!” cries de Havilland, to which Flynn replies, in a voice dripping with insinuation, “Fluently.”  We, and she, are immediately made to think about what other things that artful tongue can do.  (At the time of the film’s release Flynn’s reputation as a notorious womanizer, booze-hound and sex fiend would have been well known to any lucid moviegoer over the age of twelve.)  Pauline Kael once wrote that Jack Nicholson could suggest oral sex just by cocking an eyebrow; watching Errol Flynn in Robin Hood I think I know what she means.



Listening to "Do the Right Thing"

Spike Lee, Richard Edson, and Samuel L. Jackson in the radio station.

Writing about Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing in 1989, Armond White noted that Lee “takes his tone from the populist mode of airwave entertainment” and “constructs the film in flowing, start-stop rhythms that match the flux of radio […] Do the Right Thing is tuned in to the ongoing primacy of pop experience.  Its person-on-the-street multiplicity suggests the surreal dissonance of dial spinning.”  Radios and popular music are key to the style of this noisiest and most raucous of Lee’s films.  Do the Right Thing is narrated (hosted?) by superfly radio deejay Mister Señor Love Daddy (Samuel L. Jackson); it’s awash with pop songs by everyone from Ruben Blades to Al Jarreau; and one of its main characters, Radio Raheem (Bill Nunn), is so attached to his massive boom box that it functions symbolically as an extension of his body.  (The destruction of that boom box with a baseball bat precipitates Radio Raheem’s death by chokehold at the hands of the NYPD moments later.)  At one point, Love Daddy rattles off a list of names of iconic black musicians, a litany that recognizes black music as holding spiritual meaning.     

Radio Raheem with boom box.

Music and radios act as cultural weapons and phallic symbols: earlier in the film Radio and a Latino neighbor have a street duel with their stereos, each turning theirs up louder and louder in an attempt to drown out the other (Radio eventually blasts his opponent into submission).  And Radio’s anthem, Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power,” doubles as the unofficial theme song of Do the Right Thing, to the extent that Lee makes it the subject of an entire dance number.  Like Lee’s previous film School Daze (1988), Do the Right Thing is something of a musical—but, as White notes, one built around the clashing textures and quick-changing rhythms of the street rather than the polished choreography of Broadway and Hollywood.  That the opening beats of "Fight the Power" follow Brandford Marsalis' solo rendition of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" establish both songs as part of a tradition of black music as a source of grass-roots resistance.     
Rosie Perez in the opening dance number.

Do the Right Thing also finds Lee tuning into other kinds of music: the hodgepodge vernacular of Bed-Stuy, where black folks and Italians rub elbows, however uneasily, with Latinos and Koreans.  The film is an aural mishmash of voices, dialects, ethnic flavors.  Lee uses actors the way a composer uses vocalists, setting Giancarlo Esposito’s rat-a-tat jive talk and Rosie Perez’s sharp-tongued chatter against Ruby Dee’s haughty drawl and Samuel L. Jackson’s devilish purr. 

Lee’s attention to cross-talk—to the mixing of voices, sounds, and musical styles—is also reflective of his ethos as an artist.  Lee has always been one of the most dialectical of filmmakers; his films are “diverse” not because they foreground the experiences of people of color but because there are so many competing ideas in them.  Nearly every scene in Do the Right Thing is structured by some sort of personal or ideological conflict between two characters, culminating in the conflicting/complementary perspectives of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X.  It would be a misrepresentation to say that the plurality of voices in Do the Right Thing is about validating multiple viewpoints (“everyone’s entitled to their opinion”); rather, it’s about acknowledging the complexity of experience, and about the importance of listening to everything and everyone around us.   

Martin Luther King and Malcolm X: A dialectical ending.


Like clockwork: Disney as toy-maker

Jiminy Cricket with mechanical clock figure in Pinocchio.

Leonard Maltin has called Pinocchio (1940) Disney’s “meatiest” animated feature, and I’d say that’s right—at 88 minutes it’s one of the longest films put out by the studio during its classical period (the 125-minute Fantasia being one exception), but it feels less padded than, say, Snow White or Cinderella, and marred by fewer digressive animal gags.  It also marks an extraordinary leap forward from Snow White in terms of its scale and ambition.  Lampwick’s transformation scene, the battle with Monstro the whale, and Pinocchio’s performance of “I’ve Got No Strings”—a musical pastiche that looks ahead to the Nutcracker suite sequence in Fantasia—are among the most impressive sequences that Disney would ever conceive.  The detail work in Pinocchio is also intricate and clever, especially in Geppetto’s toyshop, with its seemingly endless variety of carved clocks and music boxes.    

Geppetto's--and Disney's--craftsmanship.

Pinocchio’s representation of the world of toys, as represented by the workshop scenes, is loving, attentive, and humorous, driven as much by its animators’ desire to capture the movements of mechanical objects as by their affection for their gimmickry.  (The mechanism of one particularly elaborate clock triggers the procession of an entire family of peasants as well as their cow; others depict a hunter taking aim at a cuckoo, a mother spanking her child, baby birds hatching from eggs, and a bee emerging from a sunflower.)  The attention to detail here, coupled with an affection for whimsical objects, lives on in Pixar films like Inside Out and the Toy Story series, with their deep knowledge of how toys work and what they mean.  Disney himself must be seen a toymaker whose creative energies were not limited to film animation but extended to the three-dimensional arts.  Disneyland may be the ultimate magic toyshop, a feat of craftsmanship and design accomplished via the use of puppets, scale models, and trompe l’oeil, realized by Disney’s team of “imagineers.”  Anyone who has experienced Disneyland’s “It’s A Small World” attraction—a boat-ride through a series of dioramas populated by what would appear to be hundreds of mechanical dolls, something akin to wandering through a real-life version of Geppetto’s workshop—will recognize the same animating spirit that drives so much of Pinocchio.

Pinocchio with Russian doll: looking ahead to Fantasia...and "It's A Small World"


The killer

Viggo Mortensen in A History of Violence (2005).

Has there been a more consummate director of genre films in the last thirty years than David Cronenberg?  A History of Violence (2005) is the kind of film that recent thrillers like Hell or High Water dream of being, a wicked little neo-noir founded on the simplest of premises: a small-town family man is revealed to have a secret past as a contract killer.  And yet, by virtue of Cronenberg’s talent as a storyteller and his willfulness as a connoisseur of the perverse, it opens onto something more sinuously dark and troubling than anything a fair-to-middling filmmaker like David Mackenzie could ever have dreamt up.  Cronenberg ranks with John Ford and Alfred Hitchcock as a world-class filmmaker whose utterly unique vision is perhaps best expressed when he’s working within the pre-fab codes of genre cinema.  A History of Violence is as profound and ironic in its understanding of the paradoxes of American morality as The Man who Shot Liberty Valance or Shadow of a Doubt or Out of the Past, all of which it invokes to varying degrees. 

Family portrait.  Tellingly, Sarah has just woken up from a nightmare about "monsters."

These films aren’t just about the sickness under the surface of American life.  They’re about the centrality of violence to America’s history, its inescapability as well as its incompatibility with the vision of a nation that it has tried to build, crystallized in the figure of the killer/hero.  A History of Violence asks, quite literally, whether a place at the family dinner table can be made for the man whose talent for killing has both saved the family and threatened to break it apart.  At the end of films like Shane and The Searchers, the killer/hero remains shut out from the social structures he has worked to protect, a taboo figure doomed to wander the far side of the frontier; at the end of A History of Violence, the question is posed, can he be domesticated, and, even if he can, do we want him to be?  The film concludes with an intensely charged, wordless sequence—as good an example of the economy and elegance of Cronenberg’s style as any in his filmography—in which a series of gazes is made to symbolize the conflict that has always attended our relationship to the killer/hero.  Maria Bello’s Edie becomes a stand-in for the audience, simultaneously frightened of, turned on by, and fascinated with the violent edge of a character we thought we loved because he was so good. 

Edie and Tom: the final shots.

Like Hitchcock, Cronenberg understands that violence begins at home: it doesn’t lurk “out there” but is already “in here.”  It’s in this respect that A History of Violence most resembles Hitchcock’s masterpiece Shadow of a Doubt.  Both films are domestic dramas that turn on a traumatic fall into knowledge and evil, catalyzed by the realization that a beloved family member is not who he seems to be.  In A History of Violence that realization is made all the more emphatic by Viggo Mortensen’s performance as Tom Stall/Joey Cusack.  Mortensen has arguably never looked blander than he does as Tom, with his bad haircut, sleepy eyes and dad jeans.  Then in the action scenes (as “Joey”) he snaps to life, his body seeming to move on pure instinct.  There’s an absolutely chilling moment (see above) when, immediately following a bloody showdown in his front yard, Mortensen moves to embrace his teenage son, his face spattered with blood, his eyes glittering, looking like a man possessed.  Mortensen and Cronenberg don’t just show us Joey and Tom, the killer and the hero, as two sides of the same man—they show them to us at the same time.  In A History of Violence the sickness isn’t under the surface; the sickness is the surface.