Review: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring

Kim Ki-Duk's Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring is a bold, beautiful and breathtaking glimpse at Buddhism. The director delivers stunning visuals full of artistic originality. Lessons learned are slow and patient and done with little or no dialogue.

The setting is a monastery that floats on a lake surrounded by mountains and the events take place over the course of about 50 years. The story is broken into five chapters, one for each season in the title. Not only do the chapters take place during those seasons, but they are also corresponding to times in one man’s life as he grows from small child to an old man. Every chapter starts with a title card of the season. Then ornate doors, which sit on the banks of the lake, open up to reveal a monk's monastery.


It's more a fable than a storyline, because it can applied to how Buddhists would describe the world, and what they would expect of it, what they wish to achieve. The symbolism is very heavy, but does not distract from the movie -- it's the kind of film symbolism that you pick apart after the film that grants greater appreciation and understanding, but does not require comprehension during (else it'd be pretentious).

I've never seen a film be so meditative in tone, so simple, yet still speak so universally. After we finished watching the film, I said to Craig that it was "perfect." After being reminded of the extremely unnecessary kung-fu still shots, I have to change my comment to "almost perfect."

Review: George Washington

George Washington is a bold, beautiful and honest look at a rural ghetto Carolina town through the eyes of four pre-teen children. Growing up in poor conditions with little to no parental supervision, the kids are on their own. This freedom gives the kids opportunity to explore, create and dream – while it also prohibits healthy relationships, positive development and moral standards.

The David Gordon Green film follows the children through long summer days of independence. On their own, they confront hook-ups and break-ups with only themselves to talk them through. On their own, they talk about real-life questions of spirituality. And on their own, they are confronted with a life-and-death scenario that changes their lives.


This is where the film both makes and breaks itself. Each kid deals with the scenario in her/his own way. Some turn toward a negative path of looting and stealing. Others become onlookers, waiting as bystanders. And George takes the event and uses it as a launching pad towards a new life as a “hero” trying to save the world, starting with the simple act of directing traffic at the town traffic stop.

The transcendental nature of the narrative mirrors that of Terrence Malick’s A Thin Red Line and works towards a movement of meditative thought. The powerful imagery comes unhinged towards the end of the film though, as burning hats and frantic reporters act as barriers in the overall story arch rather than bridges towards something more. One could work towards meaningful metaphors in the chaos, but I felt that a more consistant and careful progression of sticking with the true observation of real-life that the rest of the film took would have cleaned up the confusion and made a more complete film experience.

Craig claimed during class that David Gordon Green’s George Washington is where the new generation of filmmakers is heading. Although the bold, creative and honest look at a slice of America is a forthright and telling vision of one director’s story – I do not believe the film industry will ever completely move towards a completely independent model of filmmaking.

Yes, making a film and distributing it is easier now thanks to YouTube.com, Apple Computers, and the World Wide Web. But the film industry continues to pump out rehashed storylines and family-friendly remakes geared towards what can make money, rather than quality and creativity that is born in the independent spirit of young filmmakers like David Gordon Green.

Review: Badlands

Director Terrence Malick paints a pretty picture by taking his time to develop each shot, conversation, and character. You put them all together and you have Badlands, a beautiful motion picture of American sensationalism and ironic heroism created by a mass media whirlwind.


The setting is a Midwestern town, where Martin Sheen plays a malcontent 20-something garbage man named Kit who stumbles upon a teenage dreamer in Sissy Spacek starlet of Holly. The conversation starts innocent enough, but soon the young lovers turn into naïve dreamers caught up in a killing spree only a true story could produce.

Yes, the movie is based on a true story of the 1958 killings that left 11 people dead and the nation in an odd tension built between fear of the vigilante killers and the media darlings they had become.

Malick plays with this tension in the simple editing of the film. Long, sanguine shots show the gritty, dirty reality of the American skyline. These are intertwined with the matter-of-fact naivety of the young Holly’s innocent fairy-tale narration throughout the film. The stark contrast toys with your emotions as you watch the horrors of a torrent passion play unfold. And you see why the American public can become enamored with the characters, like old-school gunslingers evading modern-day peacekeepers.

The observation and patience that Malick displays in Badlands is the key to the film. The film is truly transcendental in that the film allows the viewer to live in the world of the characters on screen. It is an oddly enjoyable experience as we are allowed to ride along with the killers in a journey that cannot end well.

Quote

"Anyone who wants to know the human psyche will learn next to nothing from experimental psychology. He would be better advised to abandon exact science, put away his scholar's gown, bid farewell to his study, and wander with human heart throughout the world. There in the horrors of prisons, lunatic asylums and hospitals, in drab suburban pubs, in brothels and gambling-hells, in the salons of the elegant, the Stock Exchanges, socialist meetings, churches, revivalist gatherings and ecstatic sects, through love and hate, through the experience of passion in every form in his own body, he would reap richer stores of knowledge than text-books a foot thick could give him, and he will know how to doctor the sick with a real knowledge of the human soul." ~ Carl Jung

Review: Light Sleeper

What do you get when you mix Robert Bresson with Miami Vice and the Lost Boys Soundtrack? Apparently you get a movie by Paul Schrader. For an amazing screen writer that brought us transcendent films such as Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and The Last Temptation of Christ, we get a less-than-transcendent Light Sleeper.


The main issue is that the successful films listed above were placed in the hands of an exceptional director in Martin Scorsese. Paul Schrader is a phenomenal writer. But he is a poor director. Leave the filmmaking to the Scorsese's of the world, Schrader. Stick to the writing.

What is most confusing is the elements of the film seem like the right choices. Light Sleeper has an interesting main character in Willem Dafoe's drug dealing philosopher, an epic cityscape in New York City, and a life changing story line. Yet, the film falls flatter than a Ashley Simpson note.

And the blame is in the direction. The movie is dated beyond-belief. From the 80's dress, to the 80's music... the 80's haven't aged well. You can see the glimpses towards the transcendental filmmakers that Schrader idolizes, but they are over-the-top in every way. From obviously placed buddhas on empty walls, to lonely cross-shaped lamps in empty rooms... the film wants to introduce divine grace in a troubled world, but doesn't have the touch of grace needed to pull it off. I love lamp. I hate Schrader's direction.

Review: Performing Rites

Simon Frith, in his 1996 book Performing Rites, explores the theme of musical genres as social constructions. Frith explains the popular music listener’s judgment of authenticity as “a perceived quality of sincerity and commitment. It’s as if people expect music to mean what it says” (71).

Drawing as well upon the work of Franco Fabbri, Frith lays out a series of “genre rules” which he claims govern the way we listen to music. Asserting that “popular musical pleasures can only be understood as genre pleasures” [91], Frith writes that genre analysis is narrative analysis: “It must refer to an implied community, to an implied romance, to an implied plot” [90-91]. Genres are a way for audiences and performers to bond over the retelling of a (believed to be) common story. And when a story is told, Frith argues, certain rules come into play:

Such rules refer to the ways in which “meaning” is conveyed… How is “truth” or “sincerity” indicated musically? How do we know what music is “about”? Consider, for example, how different genres (opera, folk, rock, punk) read singers: as the protagonists of their songs? As revealing themselves? Rules here, in other words, concern musical expressivity and emotion; they determine the significance of the lyrics—different genres, for example, having quite different conventions of lyrical realism: soul versus country, the singer/songwriter versus the disco diva. [91]

In other words, one could take the lyrics from a country song and present them to an audience in a “punk” style (musical interpretation or delivery), and this simple act of reinterpretation could drastically change those words’ meaning. This is especially relevant when considering the “I” in popular music lyrics: does it refer to a personal experience or a collective one? For instance, when Johnny Cash sings, “Well, I woke up Sunday morning / With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt” in his song “Sunday Morning Coming Down” is he speaking as himself, or as the voicing of a regional experience of a hangover? The answer seems to change somewhat depending on the genre in question.

A second Johnny Cash song, his Nine Inch Nails cover of “Hurt” is another strong example of the how a genre can change the meaning of lyrics. When Cash sings, “What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know, goes away in the end” the lyrics can be interpreted as a reflection at the end of a long life. But the original meaning of Trent Reznor’s lyrics changed from a place of despair to reflection. Reznor later lamented that when producer Rick Rubin first asked if Cash could cover his song, he was “flattered” but worried that “the idea sounded a bit gimmicky.” Reznor became a fan of Cash’s version, however, once he saw the music video:

I pop the video in, and wow… Tears welling, silence, goose-bumps… Wow. I just lost my girlfriend, because that song isn’t mine anymore… It really made me think about how powerful music is as a medium and art form. I wrote some words and music in my bedroom as a way of staying sane, about a bleak and desperate place I was in, totally isolated and alone. (Somehow) that winds up reinterpreted by a music legend from a radically different era/genre and still retains sincerity and meaning — different, but every bit as pure. [Alternative Press #194. September 2004]

Frith argues that listening itself is a performance, both social gesture and bodily response. From how they are made to how they are received, popular songs shape our understanding of what all music means. But the listener’s experience determines the “meaning” – making it an aesthetic matter and highly personal. I love the way Frith brings the conversation about musical genre and interpretation into the realm of sociology. The “popular” in popular music demands a further analysis. And Frith does it well.

Review: Andrei Rublev

For a film widely recognized as a cinematic masterpiece, Andrei Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev failed to live up to its lofty expectations. The film follows the 15th century Russian monk and icon painter Andrei Rublev as he faces violence, political persecution and, eventually, a crisis of faith after leaving the monastery to paint a gothic cathedral's interior.

The violence, political persecution, and crisis of faith are evident throughout – but the movement from realism to transcendence was not so clear. In fact, besides the wonderful dialogue between the painter monk and other characters throughout the 3:25 minutes, coupled with striking cinematic photography, I fail to see where the divine can enter the conversation. Yes, the realism and human experience fits the transcendental definition outlined by Schrader, but the random execution and brutality of darkness fail to reach the divine and instead bathe in the depravity of human nature.

From Dreyer we were forced to understand human emotion encountering the divine. From Ozu we learned that sitting and breathing in the world around us can bring us into a reality we miss in our busy lives. And from Bresson we struggled with our freedom and learned to except what is given instead of taking what is desired. But what did we learn from Tarkovsky? I learned that sometimes long shots don’t bring transcendence, that a when a main character is missing from the story for too long it removes the element of continuity, and that violence sometimes is just violence.



I was praying for a Bresson montage during the violent scenes. Even Rocky had a montage! This may come to a surprise for those that know my favorites movies include Full Metal Jacket, The Killer, The Shining, and The Silence of the Lambs. But the long takes of death and pillage of war in Andrei Rublev was too much to bear at times. What was the point? War is evil? Okay, I get it. Thanks for opening my eyes, Tarkovsky. If this is what you choose to do with Bazin’s evolution of the image, I’d rather go visit Rublev’s iconography and find meaning in the stillness. Sweet, sweet stillness.