Review: Fritz Lang's M

by Lucy Johns, SF Art & Film mentor

It’s still early in the history of cinema. Of the basic technological elements of the new medium – movement, sound, color, the artifice of imagery – only movement is firmly in place. Sound has just appeared. Where is precedent for blending sound and movement? Opera. In Fritz Lang’s “M,” one of the first films out of Germany with sound track, sound is on show, along with a sensational story.

A city of four million is gripped by the horror of a serial child killer. Music introduces the specter in the opening frame as a child sings a lilting threat of kidnapping by a man in black. A mother carrying laundry shouts for her to stop. She doesn’t. When the little singer becomes the next victim, the stage is set for conflict between society and a monstrous outcast who looks, unfortunately, just like everyone else. The police proceed with huge sweeps and household intrusions. The criminal underworld, maddened by the excessive attention, organizes its own troops, including a union of beggars, to find the killer before business is shut down completely. All are stymied until a sound proves the trap that catches the killer.

Building on Wagner’s invention of the musical theme that symbolizes a particular character - the “leitmotif” – “M” introduces the killer with a snatch of “Peer Gynt” whistled as only his hand, writing a taunt to the police, is visible. While the director explores the dramatic potential of tiny sounds (the tap tap tap of a knife hammering a nail) and of long silences overlying strong movement (dozens of men fanning out, soundlessly, through city streets), the killer’s leitmotif pulls the story to its fitting end. It is a masterful irony for film as a visual medium that the killer is caught by a man who cannot see but who recognizes that leitmotif and follows it.

“M” also remains gripping after 80 years thanks to its imagery of the chase and the intellectual challenge of its penultimate scene. As the criminal gang closes in on a vast building, the killer hides amidst dark storage rooms whose open-bar front grills make looking out easy while foiling looking in with shadows and clutter. This complicated interior that connives with bad guys to obstruct good guys became a staple of crime and horror films to come. The people’s court that finally grapples with the killer’s anguished confession might as well be a contemporary jury confronting the alleged etiology of a similar heinous crime. Peter Lorre’s operatic monologue pleads the case for sickness vs. depravity as vividly as one could wish, to as little avail then as now. “M” is an artistic milestone presenting an ageless morality play.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: William Nakamura

LA HAINE

by William Nakamura

The film, La Haine (1995), by Matthieu Kassovitz, was a symbolic representation of oppression in the eyes of three teenage boys. The movie follows three culturally diverse friends from the projects of Paris over 24 hours. They go on many adventures expressing their bliss and frustration, until their unfortunate demise. With intricate techniques used to develop ominous, exciting, and saddening scenes, my thoughts lingered as I became engrossed in the film. I especially grew fond of the way Hubert composed himself while overcoming adversity.

Police brutality is portrayed the same in the film as it is currently. The riots in the film are similar to those of the riots following the murder of George Floyd; the hospitalization and eventual death of Abdel was similar to the murder of James Scurlock. When the cops were interrogating Said and Hubert, they roared racist remarks, hurled spit, and beat them all the while they made a rookie observe. Rage and disgust boiled from within me, watching the boys get tortured I thought to myself, “If I were that rookie, what would I do?” Do I stand up for what I know is right or do I live in fear of my superior? Though Said had encountered a nice cop in the film, I could not help but share the disgust Vinz had for the police of Paris; the people sworn to protect and uphold the law, only to turn around and enjoy the classist divide.

There is nothing more inspiring than to see, hear, and share someone's passion of increasing success. At the end of the film Vinz says, “It's about a society on its way down. And as it falls, it keeps telling itself: ‘So far so good... So far so good... So far so good.’ It's not how you fall that matters. It's how you land.” For days I pondered the meaning behind this quote to which I realized that no matter what happens, the poor suffer. In the film, Hubert, a black teen, is the only person with a clear determination to graduate out of an impoverished life. He had started his own boxing gym as he was determined to get out of the slum of Paris: “...I want out of the projects mama,” showing he felt there was more to life than poverty and oppression. His words were touching, the idea is homogeneous to many students’ aspirations at Lowell. The hustle-and- bustle is a lifestyle my peers and I have become accustomed to; the drive to become better than each other and more successful than our past. After his dialogue, the film panned to a billboard with the words ‘The World Is Yours’ signifying Hubert’s ambition to break free from classism, racism, and privation.

One of the main themes in the film is how the boys deal with racism and inequality. During an altercation between Vinz and Hubert, Vinz questioned, “If you know what's right and wrong? Why do you side with the assholes?” Hubert responded, “Who's the asshole? If you stayed in school, you'd know that hate breeds hate.” Hubert’s words encourage a high road approach to beating the system within the system. In society, to earn respect you must become a successful and wealthy person. Hubert’s view of racism is seen as an opportunity to improve the world. When Said said ‘thank you’ to the cop when asking for directions, Vinz clowned him. However, Said understood that they live in a classist society; he correlated the nice part of town to fair police and the poor part with mean cops. Said and Hubert’s reactions to inequality is akin to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ideologies. Dr. King believed in peaceful protests to gain inches in the political world and preached patience and hard work to gain equal rights, much like Said and Hubert.

In a warm light, the film reminded me of the nights my friends and I would go on bike rides. Their loyalty to each other is similar to my own, giving each other hard times along with happy times-- no one could ask for more. Said, Vinz, and Hubert crashed an art exhibition to pass time and have fun; much like my friends and I flew down hills at 40 miles per hour hollering with joy. Their mischievous activities lead to thrilling police chases which placed a smile on my face; they were having fun together. During the interaction with Snoopy, the boys are offered a line of coke and they repeatedly decline. When Snoopy’s jerk-like behavior enrages Vinz, the other two boys hold Vinz back making sure that he does not get into more trouble. As the boys were running from the cops for loitering in the abandoned mall, memories of running around the city filled my head. Their disregard of infraction combined with their ultimate momentary happiness create images of bliss in the eyes of the viewer.

The movie La Haine is a touching film that portrays a view of poverty nearly identical to the cruel reality today, with highlights of joy and lowlights of oppression. The film follows three boys from the rough parts of Paris as they go about their day performing acts of delinquency and overcoming unfair humanity. I strongly recommend this film because it touches on racial and classist inequality through a young person’s perspective.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Cheryl Chen

KLOPKA: Existing in the Gray

by Cheryl Chen

Srdan Golubovic’s Klopka explores the great lengths a person is willing to go to save their loved one. Unable to afford a life-saving surgery for his son, the protagonist, Mladen, is faced with an impossible dilemma: take another man’s life for money or watch his son die. When he chooses the former, he plunges into a trench of overwhelming guilt that ultimately destroys his life. Weaving elements of irony, psychological turmoil, and symbolism, Klopka guides its audience on an emotional journey where insights about morality, wealth, and human nature are revealed.

While watching the film, a recurrent question surfaced in my mind: what would I do if I were in the main character’s shoes? On one hand, would I have courage to abandon my moral values and kill another person who also had a family? On the other hand, would I be able to live with the guilt of allowing my child to die when there was an alternative option? The complexity of this constructed dilemma results in no definite right answer. They are both terrible choices. However, depending on an individual’s values, one choice may be slightly more favorable than the other. Some, who have experienced parenthood, may argue that the sacrifices and consequences from committing murder outweigh the pain of losing their child. Others may feel that murder is unjustified in any circumstance. Although I have come to the conclusion that I simply do not possess the conscience required to assassinate someone, I acknowledge the justifications for both sides and sympathize with Mladen. All in all, Klopka compelled me to assess my own moral values through the perspective of the protagonist.

This film also influenced me to reflect upon the divisions of wealth in society. People of low socioeconomic status are inherently disadvantaged. In the film, Mladen’s bleak situation is contrasted with backdrops of gaudy homes and luxurious items—most notable being an empty picture frame worth the same amount of money as the surgery. The comparison between the picture frame and his son’s life emphasizes how every life is not equal. Although we are all of the same species, social constructs like wealth play a significant role in determining one’s value and limitations in society. The tragedy that unraveled within the film could have been averted if a child’s survival was not tied to a hefty price tag. However, while Klopka comments on the importance of affluence in our money-oriented society, it also displays the dangers of attaching one’s worth solely on material wealth. The man who hired Mladen and falsely promised him money embodies this idea. These were actions of a desperate man who clearly wanted to cling onto his lavish home and status, despite owing an enormous amount of debt to a menacing mobster. Examining the influence of wealth, Klopka strikes a balance in exhibiting the power of money in our unequal society and the dangerous pursuit of it.

Furthermore, I particularly enjoyed how Klopka portrayed the duplicity of human nature. On multiple occasions, people doubted that Mladen could ever be involved in a crime as heinous as murder. For instance, upon hearing Mladen’s confession, the policeman dismissed his statements and believed he was mentally insane. Depicting the principal character as “the common man”, the film demonstrates that individuals who are fundamentally good can still be fallible. In other words, human beings can be just as flawed and immoral as the situations that are imposed on them. Coupled with the dreary coloring of the film, Klopka succeeds in illustrating the moral grayness in human nature. In addition, duplicity extends to the supporting characters as well, giving them multidimensionality. Mladen’s mysterious employer is actually a fearful, demoralized debtor while the dangerous mobster is also portrayed as a loving family man. This drives home the message that appearances are sometimes deceiving. Moreover, appearances control the assumptions that society makes, but it cannot fully captivate the complexities of human nature. Klopka’s unpredictable, yet grounded, story and character development subverted my expectations in every aspect.

As I stand on the verge of adulthood, I can imagine myself in the protagonist’s position. Gripping the steering wheel of the red Renault 4, I stare ahead to the diverging roads at the gloomy intersection. The street light flickers green, but I do not accelerate forward. Instead, I remain still on the driver’s seat, contemplating which road I should venture. Regardless of the avenue I choose, I can only hope that I do not lose my sense of direction.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Jessica Schott-Rosenfield

King Vidor’s THE CROWD

by Jessica Schott-Rosenfield

The Crowd is a 1928 silent drama directed by King Vidor, and regarded as one of the most influential films of its time. The Crowd chronicles the life of a man named John Sims, who loses his father at a young age. Sims sets out for New York City to become the man his father wanted him to be, but quickly learns that it is harder to make something of oneself than he had imagined. The viewer follows John through marriage, the birth of his children, and the hardships of daily life in a monotonous office job. Vidor utilizes foreshadowing, camera movement, and character development to illustrate John’s descent into the depressing reality of being only one among many.

The Crowd spends little time creating a false sense of security before passing on to scenes which foreshadow approaching disaster. One of the first scenes depicting John as a grown man is of him and his future wife, Mary, on their first date, riding a city bus. They notice a man dressed as a clown on the sidewalk, juggling to draw attention to the advertising board he wears around his neck. Both John and Mary ridicule him, saying, “look at the poor sop. I bet his father told him he’d be president one day.” By this point the viewer has witnessed John’s father tell him the same thing, and is clued in to the subtext in this dialogue. This scene foreshadows the conclusion of the film, which sees John take the very same job he once laughed at. Another instance in which anxiety is induced is shot on a cliffside by Niagara Falls. John and Mary are on their honeymoon, and have laid out a blanket on the slope. From the viewpoint of the audience, the slope looks incredibly steep and unsafe. While the couple shares a loving moment, the audience is preoccupied by how dangerous their position is. This manifests unease, and a nagging feeling that this relationship will soon be put to the test. In these instances of foreshadowing, Vidor makes clear to the viewer that John is destined for ruin.

Camera movement in this film is particularly notable because of the shots which zoom out from a frame with one person to a scene of dozens. These shots serve to highlight how slim John’s chances of making it big are, especially in a city with millions of citizens all trying to achieve the same thing. When he first lands his job as an accountant, the repetitive and dull nature of the workplace is emphasized with shots of hundreds of men all sitting at identical desks. At first, the viewer is only seeing the protagonist, and focuses solely on him, but when the camera zooms out, the viewer loses Sims in a sea of people who all look the same. When the lunch bell rings, every worker rushes across the room as one, their movements dictated by a clock and a herd mentality.

John’s character progresses further into deep denial throughout the film, as he constantly asserts that when his “ship comes in,” he will have a better life. The defining moment of his development comes after his youngest child has been hit by a truck. The child lies in bed, surrounded by her family, and John signals that everyone should stay quiet to give her peace. Outside, fire engines clang and a crowd rushes toward the scene of an accident. John opens the window to tell the crowd to be quiet, and is in such a state of disarray that he does not even close the window against the noise before going outside to attempt to silence them with a mere finger to his lips. This mindlessly illogical act shows how far John has fallen into depression, and how unprepared he was for the possibility of failure. Furthermore, the image of him standing in the midst of hundreds of people, powerless, illuminates the grand theme of inadequacy and hopelessness.

The final scene of the film sees a lift in John’s spirits, as he has gotten a job and rekindled a good relationship with his wife and son. The family sits in a packed movie theater, laughing, and the same camera zooms which are used early on in the film return. This time, the shot begins not as John alone, but with his loved ones, and zooms out to show the crowded audience which surrounds them, all overcome with laughter too. The parallelism displayed with the repetition of this shot conveys a bittersweet feeling. John is now happier than he once was, has found a kind of peace, but is still lost in the same mass of people. Perhaps the love of a family will keep him content, yet the final loss of the protagonist among an unidentifiable throng still evokes an air of melancholy.

The Crowd is the story of millions of people who lived the same way John Sims did, always waiting for the American dream to lift them up as they saw it happen in the media. Through foreshadowing, camera movement and character development, Vidor conveys the fear and shame felt by so many in the early 20th century, when they realized that not everyone would be the next great success story.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Katherine Song

LA STRADA: Unfortunately, It Didn’t Make Me Cry

by Katherine Song

There exists a saying in Italian: "Chi causa del suo mal, pianga se stesso", directly translated as "he who has caused his own pain cries to himself'1. In the movie La Strada, often credited to its director Federico Fellini, protagonist Gelsomina is sold off to a traveling strongman, Zampano, whose brutish and violent behavior contrasts with Gelsomina's kind and innocent personality. They travel along the Italian countryside, putting on shows, until they come across II Matto, a talented tightrope walker, whose provocative actions eventually lead to his death at the hands of Zampano. Gelsomina, tom up by II Matto's death, becomes withdrawn and Zampano eventually leaves her behind by the shoreline, but when he comes back to see her years later, he is greeted by the knowledge of her death, ending the movie's final scene as he cries by the sea. Indeed, he who has caused his own pain—Zampano, by killing II Matto and causing Gelsomina's grief, only for her to die from it—only has himself to cry to, having lost the one person willing to stay by his side. To a modern audience, well familiar with atrocities and tragedy on a daily basis, La Strada does not evoke the same sense of grief as it would to its audience during its release. However, I found the development and the end the three main characters come to ultimately tragic, giving La Strada its bittersweet emotions transcending time.

II Matto, The Fool, is the first to die, whose end is tragic because of its abruptness. When he finally stands, having had his head bashed by Zampano (his death banishing from the world the talent Zampano sorely lacks) he comments on how his watch is broken, before stumbling away and collapsing. He gets no final dramatic last words, no words of wisdom to pass on—it seems as if he himself does not realize his impending death. Furthermore, his death is meaningless: even Zampano himself calls it an accident, which does not absolve him of any guilt nor responsibility for snuffing out a life, but an accident nonetheless. If enough effort is put in, anyone could blame The Fool's death on himself; if he hadn't provoked Zampano so, he may have never been caught up in his temper. But that would be a hypothetical and justifying murder, which is impossible considering II Matto's actions never surpassed simple pranks. No one gains anything from his death, and considering how he may have been the most likeable character thus far, it really does give one the impression that his death could've and should've been avoided—instead of burning to ashes. And more on how likeable II Matto was; when introduced, he's a direct parallel to Zampano. II Matto is witty, talented at what he does in the circus, and has a friendly relationship with his assistant. On the contrary, Zampano is brutish, quite stupid, and treats Gelsomina as a wife he's all too eager to cheat on and beat on. Because of Zampano's lackluster performances and appalling behavior thus far, II Matto appears to shine the moment he enters the stage. II Matto is also quick to encourage Gelsomina to learn the trumpet Zampano prohibited her from learning, and cheers her up by imparting upon her that, "I don't know for what that stone is good, but it has got its function. Or everything would be meaningless. Even the stars." He tells Gelsomina that she is needed, that she has a purpose, and that is far more gentle and encouraging than Zampano has ever been, forcing one to root for II Matto. And then he dies at the very hand of the person anyone would be cheering for Gelsomina to run away from. If it is any consolation, II Matto appears to be the only character unshackled by circumstance, who remains in control of his life even as Zampano has it in his hands. "Dal riso molto conosci stolto." A fool is ever laughing.

Gelsomina dies not long after II Matto does, whose final, broken down moments remain heartbreaking. It's hard seeing someone like her, who has eventually come out of every conflict smiling and optimistic, finally break down and lose what made her so likeable and persevering even in the face of adversity. Throughout the film, we're introduced to how she is able to move on from every issue in her life with a strength amplified by her optimistic and kind but naive nature. When she's sold off by her own family for ten thousand livres, she eventually moves on from them while waving and putting on a smile, before seeming to forget about it. When Zampano hits and mistreats her, she always eventually comes back, even as her audience pleads for her not to. Her breaking point, however, is when Zampano kills the one person who encourages her, II Matto. This is prevalent especially because prior to her being sold off, she shows no such grief for her sister Rosa's death. To have suffered such abuse throughout a lifetime, and yet the death of the one person who left a kind imprint on her leads to her own passing—how tragic a heroine. It's interesting to note how during his death, she doesn't quite acknowledge the words verbally. She says, "He feels bad." Not "he's dead." Not "you have killed him." By using such limited vocabulary with none of the bluntness, Gelsomina comes across as childishly naive, unable to express the truth she knows: that he's dead and never coming back. As she breaks down, she repeats, "II Matto, he feels bad." As the audience, we aren't even privy to her final moments; we see Zampano leave her behind as she sleeps, with only a blanket and a trumpet for company, and come back to news of her death years later. We aren't given the opportunity to process the loss of our protagonist. But then again, neither is Zampano, which brings us to our final character.

Zampano, unlike the others, survives but creates his own devastating ending—he isn't given the chance to develop, and only seems to understand his own cruelty after it's far too late. He resembles a child, a huge one with only the ability to destroy and not create, leaving behind him a trail of regret. He has no talents but brute strength, repeating his same show while stuck in a loop of inferiority. He prohibits Gelsomina from learning the trumpet to hold her back, and to every person he comes across he takes credit from Gelsomina by proclaiming that he "taught her everything." Zampano is, in my opinion, unredeemable with no qualities that can explain why Gelsomina chose to stay with him. He is unintelligent, far from creative, and will leave to sleep with other women right in front of Gelsomina, neglecting her completely. However, he calls her his wife despite having no intention of truly getting married and when she runs away, chases her down and beats her. He is selfish, choosing to steal from the nuns after being shown kindness, and at the very end when the bartender tries to help him from drinking himself into a stupor, he responds violently and angrily. He is the very image of a villain, and just as we start to see him take care of Gelsomina that implies he thinks of her as more than a plaything, he reverts right back as soon as she starts to show signs of improvement. And when he sees she will not, he abandons her. This cowardice, his inability to continue staying with Gelsomina as she did for him, reveals his true nature. At the end of the movie, we see he hasn't changed at all. But when he breaks down and cries after Gelsomina's death is revealed, we start to see the slightest bit of humanity in him, gained far too late. How many Zampanos are there in the world, hurting others until they come to realization? How many never learn their faults? This is something I don't think I want to know.

In some way, each character leads to the downfall of another. II Matto is directly killed by Zampano due to his aggravation of the latter. Gelsomina dies from the shock and grief of II Matto's death—and while it can be arguable considering Zampano manipulated and mistreated Gelsomina far before II Matto's death, it is his death that becomes the catalyst for her breaking down. And Gelsomina's death gives Zampano his long overdue grief at the end of the movie by the sea, with no one to comfort him or respond to him. It's practically impossible to feel sympathy for him, with his own actions having led to these consequences, but he remains a tragic figure nonetheless. None of three main characters get a happy ending, which is sadly reflective of reality. La strada, translated as "the road", is the path these three characters take, intertwining for one brief moment before separating and terminating.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Isabella Wong

LA STRADA: The Tragedy of Human Nature

by Isabella Wong

I didn’t have high expectations when I entered the Kast party to watch La Strada. The trailer for Federico Fellini’s 1954 Italian drama film didn’t strike me as very promising, but I decided to watch it with an open mind. La Strada follows the naive and peppy protagonist Gelsomina, who was sold by her family to a street performer, Zampano. The pair go on to perform circus acts all over Italy before formally joining a circus, where they meet the tightrope walker, Il Matto. Unfortunately, each of these three characters meet a tragic end, with Il Matto dying at the hands of Zampano, and Gelsomina following soon after, leaving Zampano to wallow in his misery alone. Although the trailer depicts La Strada in a positive and even cheerful light, the film had more than its fair share of gloomy scenes. Nonetheless, Fellini’s La Strada illustrates human nature in its raw form and shows how human nature led to the tragedies of Zampano, Gelsomina, and Il Matto.

Zampano’s character is the epitome of brutality and pride. He is narcissistic, egotistical, and motivated completely by self-interest. Throughout the film, even though I expected that Zampano would treat Gelsomina roughly, I never expected that he would actually abuse her and was continuously taken aback each time he did so. Unlike Gelsomina, who is naturally talented at many things, Zampano’s only trick is one that he performs over and over again, like a one trick pony. Thus, his strong sense of pride and need for validation causes him to prevent Gelsomina from learning things from people who aren’t him in order to validate his fragile masculinity. Zampano shows no remorse for his actions and will gladly take advantage of people’s kindness in order to benefit himself, as he attempted to steal from the nuns who offered him shelter. In the end, it was Zampano’s pridefulness that led to his downfall. Zampano’s character realistically depicted some common ways people today cope with their problems: alchohol and sex. Like many people, Zampano recognized his faults, yet was unable to mature and let go of his anger as he spiraled down a path of self-destruction. This sparked a chain of reactions where his accidental murder of Il Matto caused Gelsomina’s emotional breakdown and eventual death. To my dismay, Zampano only showed signs of character development at the very end of the movie, when he realizes that he was the cause of Gelsomina’s death. Zampano’s tragedy was that he realized his mistakes too late and was unable to reflect on them and treat Gelsomina right while she was still alive.

In contrast to Zampano’s rough characterization, Gelsomina’s peppy yet naive personality causes her eventual downfall. Gelsomina’s optimistic outlook on life causes her to stay by Zampano’s side, in spite of the abuse she endures from him. Gelsomina falls in love with Zampano and can’t help but be tied down to him because of her devotion. Over the course of the film, Gelsomina is presented countless opportunities to leave and run away from Zampano, and even succeeded in one attempt before Zampano found her and beat her. Overall, it was Gelsomina’s mentality of being tied down to her abuser that reminds me of that of a victim who stays in an abusive relationship solely because they love their abuser. As a result, Gelsomina became submissive to Zampano and mostly followed his orders without question, unless it went against her morals. That is, until Zampano kills Il Matto, albeit accidentally. Il Matto was Gelsomina’s largest source of emotional support and encouragement when she struggled with fighting for Zampano’s affection. Thus, his death served as the catalyst for both her physical and mental breakdown, leading to her eventual death at the end of the film. In various scenes, Gelsomina can be seen repeating, “Il Matto, he feels bad,” over and over again, as if it was the only thing she could say. Following Il Matto’s death, besides being shaken, Gelsomina feared Zampano in a way that was different from her fear every time he beat her. However, in one scene, Gelsomina’s attitude completely changed from her dreary, worn-out self back to her peppy, optimistic self. To me, this showed that Gelsomina finally came to terms with the fact that the man she loved killed the only friend who encouraged and cheered for her through tough times. However, it’s this change that also made me pity her because it signified how Gelsomina coped with the death of her friend by ultimately giving up on life. Unable to move on from Il Matto’s death and her feelings for Zampano, the viewer finds out at the very end of the movie that Gelsomina lived out the rest of her days with a welcoming family, before succumbing to death. Compared to Zampano, who couldn’t help but lead a self-destructive lifestyle, Gelsomina was someone who couldn’t help but follow her heart, even though it ended up hurting her.

Unlike Gelsomina and Zampano, Il Matto is a free spirited and reckless character, who is by far my favorite character from La Strada. He and Zampano frequently butt heads throughout the film and is often the cause and provocation of their fights. Il Matto, free spirited as he is, is a character that I thoroughly enjoyed watching through his interactions with Gelsomina. Il Matto’s character is one that is easily likeable because of his playful and reckless behavior. One of my favorite scenes from this movie is Il Matto’s gentle encouragement to Gelsomina where he tells her, “I don't know for what that stone is good, but it has got its function. Or everything would be meaningless. Even the stars.” It was this that gave Gelsomina strength in the face of adversity and allowed her to continue striving for Zampano’s affection. Unfortunately, it’s Il Matto’s free spirited, does-whatever-he-wants nature that ultimately leads him to take Zampano’s temper too lightly, and provoke him too far. Il Matto’s death was one that I personally believe is a waste because both the viewer, and Il Matto himself never expected Zampano to go that far. Il Matto’s life was tragically, albeit wastefully, cut short. However, what sets him apart from Zampano, who was bound to his problems, and Gelsomina, who was bound to Zampano, was that Il Matto was only bound to himself.

In the end, Fellini captures human nature as we feel and experience it, something that is innate and often controls us until the very end. Now as I reflect on La Strada through this reaction essay, I’m able to appreciate Fellini’s portrayal of a small moment in time where the loves and dreams of the main characters were never realized. A famous Italian proverb says, “Il tempo passa e non ritorna,” or time passes and does not return. Just as how the time Zampano spent with Gelsomina will never return, Zampano filled up the rest of his days with regret over being unable to cherish her properly. La Strada, emotionally exhausting as it is, teaches us to appreciate those in our life while they’re still here. For now, I think I’ll start with reminding my friends and family with how much I appreciate them.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Erica Paschke

Poverty’s Cyclical Melancholy in KILLER OF SHEEP

by Erica Paschke

Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep (created in 1977 but released in 2007 is a narrative depicting the struggle of the working class through seemingly modest scenes of everyday life. During the time that Burnett was working on this film, many other students at UCLA, Burnett’s university, were simultaneously creating films about the working class. However, the majority of Burnett’s peers were out of touch with the struggles the working class faced. Their films were a romanticized version of the blue-collar life he knew. This inspired Burnett to use his personal experiences and knowledge of the Watts district of Los Angeles to show a realistic depiction of what was going on just miles away from the wealthy community of UCLA. His film is shot through the lens of the protagonist, a simple and hard-working man named Stan. It portrays the lack of respite for a worker who spends 8 hours a day killing, washing, and packaging sheep.

Stan’s personal life seems to never escape the monotony of the slaughterhouse. Every dynamic he has is influenced by the fact that he has to go back to the factory. Stan exchanges few words in this film, often he is seen sitting in silence- disconnected from the community around him. He and his wife’s relationship has disappeared, he no longer properly connects with his friends, and the only thing stopping him from killing himself is his young daughter who is the only source of his few smiles. Despite the apathy he feels for his life, Stan holds on to his ambition of happiness, which is seen through him still attempting to do ‘fun’ things such as the day trip to the country. However, his attempts inevitably fail and lead him deeper and deeper into the pit of melancholy. Stan seems to only find beauty in simple moments of daily life- whether it be embracing of his daughter or the warmth of a coffee cup. The film does not sugarcoat his situation or show a remarkable change in his disposition, it is simply a representation of the blue-collar life.

Burnett uses sheep in the film to represent the cyclical nature of life. No matter how many sheep Stan kills, there is always another one to slaughter, just as there is always another tragedy to overcome. This process in turn brings recurring pain which in some cases becomes too much for the workers to handle. Stan’s poverty cuts him off from the opportunities and freedom a higher wealth bracket would afford. To him, life goes nowhere, just as the movie goes nowhere. His attempts to move his life represent the larger struggle of working-class individuals in their constant need to overcome. An example of this is shown in the film when Stan becomes briefly motivated and attempts to buy a new motor for his car. This scene is one of the longest in the film: representing the interminable path to happiness many find themselves in. When he finally obtains the motor, it is placed in the back of their truck and as soon as they start to drive it falls out onto the pavement. The motor breaks and Stan says nothing as he is hit with the realization that the pain in his life will always outweigh the joy.

Even though the film was shot in 1977, Burnett chose not to film in color. The use of seemingly junky black and white pictures gives the impression that Stan and those around him are stuck in a monotonous past. Color also brings ardor and vibrancy so the film’s lack of it gives the audience a dulling sense of torpidity. This lethargy matches the lack of action within the film. It reaffirms that these are their lives and that they will never change.

Killer of Sheep is not a fast-paced movie brimming with action. Burnett created a simple plot without a glorified happy ending to illustrate his point. The point of the film is to accurately portray the struggles faced by individuals below the poverty line. Stan’s character shows how a lack of choice in life often leads to an inability to find meaning. His limited opportunities are cyclical in nature and lead to a decline in psyche along with a sense of being trapped. Killer of Sheep manages to tell many people’s stories through the lens of one man. Burnett uses Stan’s difficulties to embody those of a disheartened and impoverished working class.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Marvin Chen

Separated By Thousands of Miles in THE FAREWELL

by Marvin Chen

Lulu Wang’s The Farewell is a poignant depiction of a universal human experience –– the loss of a loved one. However, as a first-generation Chinese American, I recognize the unique take Wang was trying to convey from the start: the family dynamics and seemingly having a foot in two worlds. The film explores the story of Billi, a Chinese American writer from New York, and her Nai Nai (paternal grandmother) who is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The family chooses to conceal the diagnosis from Nai Nai and calls for a farewell masked as a wedding, a ruse that Billi fundamentally disagrees with and struggles to maintain. As the family turned actors reunite in Changchun, China, different attitudes toward death and dueling personalities set up the backdrop for a comedy that ultimately has somber undertones. “Based on an actual lie” (as marketed), The Farewell highlights the dichotomy between Western and Eastern culture; a separation within a cross-cultural family that stretches thousands of miles and spans cultures, generations and distance, all framed in the context of a riveting visual story that uses dialogue, symbolism and imagery to a masterful effect.

Wang’s juxtaposition of Western and Eastern culture through family dialogues emphasizes the cultural barriers that exist within a cross-cultural family. The conversation at the family dinner was all too familiar, with the uncles and aunts and cousins you haven’t seen in ages seated at a round table, though the topic is centered more on academic performance for me personally. In Billi’s case, her family compares job opportunities between the United States and China. In a Chinese household, material wealth is an indicator of success, yet American values accentuate self accomplishments. A few testy exchanges prompt Billi to conclude the conversation by emphasizing how America is just different from China, not necessarily better. The dialogue used was authentic, spoken in fluent Mandarin and with cultural fluency. Even the subtitles, dare I say it, were proficient.

Billi’s usage of Mandarin and English added to the authenticity as Billi has a noticeable accent and needs her parents to translate certain phrases, a characterization that befits a Chinese American who has not had to use Mandarin in her daily life. Since the main character is Billi, her representation in the film through her dialogue is a living embodiment of the cultural barriers that exist between East and West. In the hospital scene, while dealing with her grandmother’s incessant matchmaking, Billi speaks in English to communicate with the doctor so Nai Nai does not understand the severity of her sickness. The doctor’s rationale that this may extend the longevity of someone diagnosed with a terminal illness because it keeps them in a positive mood baffles Billi, somebody who was raised in the West and thinks her grandmother deserves the truth.

In the hotel smoking scene, Billi, along with her father and uncle, discuss the ethics behind the decision to continue with “the good lie”. Both her father and uncle say in a determined tone that it is better for Nai Nai to live without worries, as she should leave the worries to the younger generations. Her uncle offers some clear insight: “You think one’s life belongs to oneself. But that’s the difference between the East and the West. In the East, a person's life is part of a whole. Family. Society ... We’re not telling Nai Nai because it’s our duty to carry this emotional burden for her.” The lines were delivered powerfully, leaving Billi speechless. The silence or lack of dialogue makes the message even more potent. This stark contrast between collectivism and individualism is perhaps the strongest cultural difference between the East and the West; the whole film is predicated on not letting Nai Nai confront her mortality alone. Through authentic and engaging dialogue, Wang crafts a highly recognizable story of somebody who exists within two cultures and the conflict accompanying it, something that I personally relate to.

Symbolism is used in the film to establish connections between characters and their emotions that are given form in the physical realm. There is a dark-colored bird that appears at the beginning in New York and reappears at the very end in Changchun. The bird personifies the connection Billi has with her family in China, particularly Nai Nai. The strength of that bond is evident as the film starts with Billi speaking with Nai Nai, and it is fitting Billi grunts just like her grandmother taught her, causing the same type of birds to take off near Nai Nai’s home, an entire continent away. You get the sense that no matter what happens, Billi’s love for her grandmother remains strong and vice versa. Another symbolic scene is when Billi plays the piano in China. At first, the musical piece appears to embellish the atmosphere of the family gathering, showing Billi’s restraint and grasp over her emotions. However, from the facial expressions and the intensity of her finger smashing that soon follows, it instead shows how frustrated she is. The cacophony of her music is a symbol of the anger and guilt that plagues her for agreeing to lie; even after traveling great distances, she cannot tell Nai Nai the secret. The symbols in the film allow the audience to gauge each character’s mood and make it more relatable to viewers who may not be familiar with the culture, a technique that enhances the universal appeal of the story.

Wang’s use of strong imagery is what makes the film memorable and there are some notable uses that illustrate a generational gap for different purposes. When the family goes to pay respect to their grandfather, everyone contributes some effort in placing foods such as bread, cookies, and fruits. Through the cemetery setting and bright colors of the cinematography, the audience can immerse themselves into the scene and feel the liveliness, allowing viewers a window into a possibly unfamiliar culture. The generational divide is apparent when Billi’s father “offers” a cigarette to his father by burning it (The Chinese believed burning material goods allows them to send the object to the deceased), much to the chastity of his mother, Nai Nai. Funny gaffes like this exist through the film, and paired with the unique shots and decor, the film’s genre as a comedy is reflected well. A more serious example is when Billi and her mom were looking for Aiko’s earring and had a discussion over their family’s decision to move to America long ago. As Billi starts to get emotional and reminisce about her childhood in China, her mother sits on the couch and lectures her over dwelling on the past. Despite them being at a “happy” wedding, pink and white balloons draped in the background, it is a feeling of sadness and bitterness between mother and daughter as they prepare for the wedding and the final day of deceiving Nai Nai. The imagery thus serves as the ultimate tool to set the mood according to the plot, where even cemetery scenes can be light-hearted gaffes and balloons with a wedding create a gloomy atmosphere.

As a Chinese American with family members still residing in China, I empathize with many scenes in this film because of my similar experiences. Separated by thousands of miles is a physical barrier, a generational barrier, a cultural barrier. But it can be overcome. The film has the power to evoke strong feelings and reminds me that crying and sadness are just as contagious as laughter and happiness. The farewell scene calls to me the most. I was in the exact position as Billi, sitting in the back seat of the car headed to the airport and watching my grandparents wave goodbye as their figures gradually became smaller and smaller. The camerawork for this particular scene is remarkable, following the point of view through the eyes of Billi and letting the viewer see through her from the rear window. The score for the scene is “Come Healing”, a fitting song that expresses the love Billi has for Nai Nai. Wang does an incredible job showing the implications of this farewell: it may very well be the last time Billi sees Nai Nai. It is a sobering part of life that anyone could relate to and is a testament to the appeal of Wang’s story. But just like Billi, I would ultimately choose not to tell. I might play along with any lies, just to see my grandparents smiling. I take solace in the fact that farewell in Chinese means see you again.

Review: Winter's Bone

by Lucy Johns
July 10, 2010

Layer the brutality of the drug trade on the grinding poverty, endemic lawlessness, and pervasive violence of rural America and you get a vision of American culture foreign to most in an urban audience. "Winter's Bone" is unsparing in its depiction of life in the Ozark Mountains on the brink of heartbreak most of the time. Unsentimental in approach and aesthetics, Debra Granik’s film avoids the romanticization of life among the lower classes that Hollywood often exploits.

The opening scenes establish that a teenager takes brusque but loving care of two very young children. Hers? She gets them up from their mangy couches, feeds them in a wreck of a kitchen, tests them on spelling and addition as they walk to school, watches the youngest draw happily in class. The school shows what they can look forward to as adolescents: parenting and soldiering. Back at the weather-beaten homestead, a pickup arrives. The driver tells Ree - Jennifer Lawrence, not yet 20 when the film was made - that her father has used the home as collateral for bail. If he misses his court date, the family will be evicted within the week. Ree doesn't have much but she has no intention of losing the roof. She sets out to find her dad. She gets no help. She discovers the limits of family and friendship when people have so little. She evokes deception, threats, and violence. When the children return that first day, she teaches the boy, perhaps nine, and the girl, maybe five, how to shoot a double-barreled shotgun, how to skin and eviscerate a squirrel, how to cook venison stew. When the boy asks whether they will eat the squirrel’s entrails, Ree answers, “Not yet.” Her world provides no middle-class choices but she can still protect her charges from barbarism. She is 17.

The film makes no concessions in its depiction of the grim housing, the gritty lives, the hair- trigger tempers, the implacable outside forces that know little and care less about their effects on family life. Since Ree has no transportation – she had to give away her horse because of the price of hay - she walks a lot through trackless woods, repetitive action that slows the film’s momentum at times but that also signifies her resolve despite lack of resources. The filters darkening the landscape to implacable gray-blue underline the unforgiving bleakness of the world she inhabits and confronts. Tight shots and swift editing bring physical attacks close and frightening but never linger. Bodily harm is a way of life in this film, not a titillating technique for audience involvement.

"Winter's Bone" has another story to tell. The focus throughout is on the women of this benighted country, what they learn, know, live with, cope with (or not), how finally they are capable of helping each other if persuaded of the need. They don't persuade easily and they can be as implacable as their men. They know, though, when a task should not be done by a woman and they do their best to dissuade each other from risking their lives. "Don't you have a man to do this?" asks the matriarch at a remote cabin who knows Ree is wrong for the quest she's on. Dale Dickey plays this harridan with such skill one would think she was a local, as many of the characters seem to be. The production credits also feature more women in more varied roles than in the typical commercial film. Written, directed, and produced by women, “Winter’s Bone” projects a sensibility about American life at once respectful and realistic. Not until the very last scene is there a hint that there might be the occasional moment of surcease from sorrow.

This reviewer couldn't help, drenched in the limits of these lives, wondering: how will health insurance reform affect these people? Individual mandate? They will no more abide by this rule than most of the other conventions that prosperous America takes for granted. The only government that touches this culture is the sheriff (who is pretty careful) and the military recruiter (who knows that what he offers is way superior to what he's getting). “Winter’s Bone” reminds that barriers to the pursuit of happiness will persist, perhaps forever, even in the rich, smart, adventurous society America considers itself to be.

©Lucy Johns 2010

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Jillian Lim

THE LAST PICTURE SHOW by Jillian Lim (14)
2016 Tarkovsky Prize, 3rd Place

           “The Last Picture Show” takes place in a dying Texas town in November 1951. Based of the novel of the same name by Larry McMurtry, Peter Bogdanovich directs this tear-jerking, dramatic film about two best friends that are trying to decide their futures before graduation nears. This film will capture your attention with its expressive, striking, black and white scenes and it’s hardships of growing up. The film centralizes on the theme of loneliness, and the coming of age of two high-school seniors.

Sonny Crawford and Duane Jackson are high school seniors and best friends, and as the time to decide on their futures comes near, they both struggle to find a way to escape the dying town and build a better life somewhere else. Duane is in a relationship with Jacy Farrow, the prettiest and wealthiest girl in the town. As Sonny sees their ‘perfect’ relationship, he breaks up with his girlfriend. During Christmas time, he begins an affair with Ruth Popper, who is the depressed wife of his high-school coach. At this point in their lives, Sonny and Duane’s main goal is to be in a successful relationship.

Meanwhile, Jacy, Duane’s girlfriend, is invited to a naked indoor pool party where she meets a boy that states that he’s not interested in virgins, and she could come back after she has had sex. Jacy then realizes that she wants to lose her virginity and seeks the help of her boyfriend. After he fails to preform, Jacy seeks to encounter more men. Jacy is a spoiled girl who gets what she wants. She likes to think that she is in control of her dramatic situations and attempts to make many people as unhappy as she can. But although she has wealth and beauty, she is destined to remain a small town girl.

“The Last Picture Show” is shot in black and white, which helps creates a sense of dread, and melancholy, and gives a special flavor to the realistic atmosphere of the setting. It helps the viewer focus on the content of the story and what is in the frame. Traditionally, white and black can symbolize good and evil and shooting the film in black and white points out the contrasts and could show that there is still hope in all the despair.

It is ultimately a film that shows how a person has to push through different hardships and make the right decisions in order to reach maturity. The film also hints about how the younger generation has little to look forward to, because of their elder’s actions. The small town in north Texas is already dying and decayed and Sonny and Duane feel the need to escape. The film conveys the message that whatever we do now, affects the people in the future. From this film, people can learn to be cautious and know that what they do now will affect the future.

“The Last Picture Show” will capture the minds of people who love a dramatic, bittersweet, evocative film. Although in black in white, it paints a colorful picture in your mind. It will take you on a roller coaster of emotions. Sometimes the tone of a scene is cheerful and bright, but then quickly changes to a desolate, depressing tone. Overall, the film was filled with impressive performances, and invigorating scenes. This film is filled with intriguing drama as the scenes pass by, and will have you reaching for the tissue box.

“The Last Picture Show” is a film worth keeping in your album.

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Owen Reese

IL POSTO & AMARCORD : Two Views of Growing Up by Owen Reese (16) 
2016 Tarkovsky Prize, 3rd Place

This past year I’ve been exposed to a whole world of foreign cinema I’d never even known existed, and during that time, I’ve fallen in love with a number of Italian films, particularly Il Posto and Amarcord. Both films depict the lives of teenaged boys coming of age in Italy, and both were made in roughly similar time periods (Amarcord in 1973, Il Posto in 1961).

However, despite these similarities, the films couldn’t be more different. Both affected me deeply, but in totally different ways. Il Posto takes place in a crowded, fast-moving city (Milan), but is rather quiet, whereas Amarcord is set in a small, simple town that couldn’t get more lively. The characters inhabiting Il Posto are all sad, helpless, vulnerable people who both literally and figuratively don’t have much color to them, as the film was shot in black and white and none of them have any noticeable spunk. On the other hand Amarcord, which made in full, bright color, has characters that never rest their outrageous and animated personas. My question is, which one is a better representation of the world as I’ve known it?

The obvious answer would be Il Posto because it’s more down to earth and less exaggerated. The real human experience, however, isn’t always as uninteresting as Il Posto makes it seem. The neorealistic style isn’t always realistic, however ironic that sounds. So which is it? Which of these films can be viewed as a more trustworthy image of young life as I’ve known it?

It seems like the protagonists of the two films were almost made to be opposites. In Il Posto, Domenico, the “hero” (it’s hard to describe someone so mild as a hero) is rather introverted and awkward. He doesn’t seem to know what to do in the situations he’s put in, for example the cafe scene, where he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to drink his coffee, so he watched others for reference. He never has too much energy on screen either.

Meanwhile, way over in Amarcord, Titta, the lively teenage protagonist, is extremely extroverted, though we don’t see him as much because he’s often overshadowed by other characters. Amarcord is just littered with crazy personalities, like Gradisca, the village beauty with whom everybody’s in love, Aurelio, the crazy father who’s the only non-fascist in town, and the tobacconist, who shares a particularly unusual scene with Titta.

In Il Posto, Domenico is the only one who has much screen time. Everyone seems to have an important role in a small part of the story, but then gets forgotten in not too much time. This is done to detach the audience from any other characters and make the whole film as depressing and lonely as it was meant to be. Is that like real life? Is everything really that bleak? Or is the world filled with colorful characters like in Amarcord?

In the suburbs where I’ve lived my life, most of the people I meet feel like those in Il Posto: mediocre and unspecial, even if that’s a harsh statement. I see people that don’t seem to have too much passion for life or many interesting traits, people who only care about getting good grades in school to be financially successful later in life. The characters in Il Posto are all held down, forced by circumstance to be soulless, only interested in having a good job, even if it means a long, unchanging life.

Most of the time when I get to know someone, however, they suddenly become just as interesting as any character in Amarcord. I once knew someone who seemed hopelessly boring, like there was nothing interesting going on inside his head. He never talked with enthusiasm or interest about things, as if everything was sort of just bland to him. Over time, though, I learned that he was great at conversation, and had a very unique personality. He just took some getting to know. Only a few people that I truly know are really boring like in the world of Il Posto. Maybe the reason why everyone in that film is how they are is because we, as an audience, never get past the “awkward small talk” stage with them, whereas in Amarcord, we get to see their true colors right off the bat. I think this was intended to point out the way big, industrial companies force the working class people to throw away their heart and soul just to stay afloat in a tough economy. That’s not the whole world, though. There are many other lenses through which a person can look at life, and those are what we see through in Amarcord.

Let’s take a moment to think about the setting. Amarcord takes place in a small, isolated village, where one might expect things to be slow and simple. It is quite to the contrary, though, as Amarcord is a very eventful film full of spectacle and wonder, the kind of vibe I’ve known cities to give off in films I’d previously seen. Il Posto, which is actually set in a city, has a crowded and bustling atmosphere, though the action is very slow and quiet. The black-and-white color scheme really enhances the mood of mediocrity and simplicity. It’s unusual that a vast, complex city holds a simple and small story, and the small, simple town holds a vast and complex story. You would think the tone of a movie would correlate with the setting, but in these two films it does the opposite.

These unusual films show two entirely different cinematic worlds that send opposing messages about what it’s like to grow up. I, personally have lived in a place that feels like Il Posto most of the time. Where I’ve grown up, everything is part of a rather small circle. The advancements in technology I’ve been lucky enough to live with definitely expand that circle and help everyone communicate with a larger world, but only on a digital plane. When I’m really living, experiencing life without using the internet, things do feel small, and the large amounts of people that I see and hear every day minding their own business are sort of just background noise to a contained little story that is my life. Still, there are plenty of characters that I’m surrounded by every day, people that have real significance and add big side stories into my life, making the circle larger.

Although I originally wanted to ask which film was a better representation of the world I’ve grown up in, I can’t. Similarities can be drawn from both Amarcord and Il Posto. Every aspect of each film is at least somewhat like what I know about the real human experience, it’s just that they show opposite sides of that experience. Life isn’t always as solitary and grim as Il Posto makes it out to be, but it also isn’t constantly as bright and exciting as Amarcord shows it. They’re different stories of different people living on the same planet from different perspectives. It’s not that one can be more correct than the other, they’re both correct and incorrect in their own ways, two tales that tell truths about my part of humanity.

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Alexander Vaheid

BLADE RUNNER By Alexander Vaheid (18)
2016 Tarkovsky Prize, 2nd Place

Blade Runner was the adaptation of Philip K. Dick that catapulted adaptions of his works into the mainstream, and for good reason. Ridley Scott’s masterpiece portrays an exquisitely crafted vision of the future in which he treats questions like “What is humanity?” with a finesse and thorough mis-en-scene that many modern science fiction films lack. The cyberpunk atmosphere of this film is so well developed that you may discover new details which each subsequent viewing. The world of the film is very well defined and does not necessarily shove plot details into the forefront, instead trusting the intelligence of the viewer to be able to find meaning in the images. For example, early on in the film, we see an advertisement for an off-world colony. Off-world colonies are not explained through expository dialogue, but instead, it’s a detail that increases our immersion in the film’s dark world. We are left to infer that the conditions on earth are subpar, which is reinforced by the people in the city streets. While flying cars zoom above, the foot traffic of the streets below show the viewer the low quality of life of citizens who remain on earth.

The atmosphere is further developed through a sense of loneliness that permeates the film. The haunting saxophone and piano melodies help elevate this above “Science Fiction Flick” by adding a level of emotion seldom heard in the genre. The influence of film noir is on display as well, with Decker being a retired replicant hunter who has to come back for one last job. He hunts alone and the only connection he finds is, naturally and tragically, with a replicant. All this, the music, the dark atmospheres, combined with the scenes of Decker alone create a feeling of loneliness and despair.

This loneliness is one of the major themes of the film. In addition to Decker we have Sebastian, who creates his own puppet friends and treats them as people. He is also extremely eager to befriend the replicants, even though it is implied he knows of their true nature. Tyrell, the master inventor, creates his own daughter. The only characters that seem to have a sense of family at all are the replicants themselves, who essentially are a de facto family. That said, Tyrell acts like a dysfunctional father figure to all of them (including Decker in a sense).

In regards to the questions it raises about humanity, we have the characters who act the most human, ironically be artificially human. We also have Decker, who hunts down and kills these “Antagonists” in the story. Roy Batty, the main replicant, is urged on by Tyrell and seems to be more alive and to feel more than, really, any other character in the film. Decker shoots an unarmed female replicant in the back, simply because she attacked him first, likely fearing for her own life. If a filmmaker in the South during the 1800s created a noir film about someone hunting down runaway slaves, it would look like this. In the right light, it becomes fairly unclear about who is “good” and “bad.”

Another element that, for me at least, made the film even more compelling, is seeing so many different types of films combined into one. If you wanted to, you could treat it like a slow noir about killer robots. You could also read it as a convoluted action and chase film. However, you can also just tune out all of the plot elements and consider the beautiful set design, lighting, and cinematography. You can marvel at the special effects and models used, and then marvel a little bit more after considering it premiered in 1982 before all the wonders of digital film making. It can be a meditation on what humanity truly is. Is the artificial life present in replicants real? If you have to perform pseudo-scientific tests on someone to figure out whether or not they’re human, does it matter anymore? Is the film a Nietzchean statement on living in the now and to the fullest, like Roy Batty does, making him more seemingly alive than any of the other characters? The film is also a puzzle, and you could watch the whole thing trying to discern whether Decker is a human or a replicant.

These elements of the film; the story, the atmosphere, the lingering questions and the haunting score, all come together to create an experience that is melancholic and aesthetically beautiful; a masterpiece that will not be soon forgotten.

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Lucas Neumeyer

THE CONFORMIST by Lucas Neumeyer, 17 
2016 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place

There are two movies fighting for attention in The Conformist. These two stories diverge and intersect throughout the narrative creating a feeling of unbalance and confusion. One is a cold drama documenting a man’s insecurity and failures. The other can be described as a convoluted and tragic love story focusing on how uncomfortable a lonely man is around extroverted people and how lost he is confronting his own bottled up passion. This conflict occurs in the head of a man who has ideas of self-fulfillment and happiness, but has trouble achieving them when his ambition battles with his conscience. It frames a story of inner exploration and outer isolation during a period of political turmoil and reform. It is a story that can reignite the emotional core of anyone who has felt confused for even a small portion of their lives.

It is not surprising that a story as binary as this one is set in two locations. On the one hand, we have Rome where the heart of fascism has the appearance of archaic buildings and stern stone columns. On the other hand, we have Paris: The intersection of art and culture. The Conformist is set during the build up and fallout of the second world war, both a time of civil unrest. It is of significance to note that the film was released in Italy in 1970, also a time of civil unrest. The Italian Socialist Party and the Christian Democrats were at odds with one another; strikes and acts of terrorism were rampant. Vulnerable people were scooped by these political agendas and student protests were at their height. Events such as those occurring in Italy at the time and May 1968 in France are to be kept in mind as Bertolucci tells the story of a meek man coerced into acts of violence on behalf of a central political party and his own personal conflict. The political ideas are really rather prescient: it ends with an assassination that serves to burn bridges and create ruin several years before Italian President Aldo Moro was murdered.

Looking beyond the politics and symbolism, The Conformist is simply a gorgeous film. It is remarkable how Bertolucci and his director of photography Vittorio Storaro rely on expressionistic, unrestrained, completely illogical imagery to express the emotions onscreen. The images range from a photo of Laurel and Hardy appearing when Marcello is embarrassed, to the background changing colors during a sex scene. This method of imagery highlights the theme of duality and brings it to the surface of the film. The film starts with Marcello lying in a hotel bed rubbing his brow with discontent. The neon sign outside supplies a malicious red across the room as the darkness ebbs and flows. This feeling of rocking back and forth is repeated a few times in the film. We see it when Marcello is pacing in front of a window in and out of darkness as radio entertainers behind slide in and out of frame, or during the fight in a restaurant kitchen where the overhead lamp swings, illuminating and darkening the room. This sense of pendulum is given significance when Bertolucci splits the frame apart. As Marcello leaves the hotel and waits for the car, the edge of the building takes up half of the screen, and when he is in the car the camera is placed in a manner that allows the windshield wiper to be laid right across his face. The imagery helps to emphasize Marcello is always confused and worried: he rocks back and forth between the opposing forces that struggle in his conscience.

Marcello’s struggle to either conform to a higher power or lead an unfulfilling life is reminiscent of the classic premise of existentialism. The appeal of fascism and a higher order is a promise of prosperity and normality, but also a path of lack of responsibility. Existentialism is all about the freedom of choice allotted to humans by life, and how those who deny this freedom are living in “Bad Faith”. Marcello doesn’t have any qualms about living in Bad Faith, he is simply searching for normality and relief. We can assume his quest for ordinariness derives from his extraordinary childhood. Having a near sexual encounter with a pedophile and shooting him are not what he considers ordinary. Neither is having a morphine-addicted mother or father committed to an insane asylum for political murders. Marcello clearly has a strong reaction to a traumatic childhood experience and suppressing his true feelings. He married Giulia because he assumed she was complacent and normal, “A mound of petty ideas. Full of petty ambitions.”.  He even gets visibly embarrassed when his mother calls him “an angel”. 

Marcello’s attempt to distance himself from this type of absurdity is reminiscent of Sartre’s ideas: God gave us morals and purpose, without them there is no way to gage what is right, wrong, normal, or absurd without a reference point. The film points out this absurdity when it cuts away to humorous details such as the maid stealing a piece of spaghetti from the bowl with her mouth, or a boy practicing somersaults with a harness, his mother in a bed of puppies, or Guilia overenthusiastically cranking a mimeograph machine. As a result, Marcello who can’t stand this confusing, free-for-all world hides in the comfort of normality that Fascism appears to offer. For him, fascism is like the church, where he could follow rules and not have to worry, right? Not exactly.

What little we see of God in this film, we perceive as not very influential. Marcello only attends his confession because it is mandatory for the wedding, and finds himself quickly blessed when he reveals the party he belongs to even though he’s just confessed to murder. Bad Faith is not only reflected in Marcello’s relationship with the church, but also in Marcello’s attempt to avoid any regrettable decision. He can’t handle the task to murder his college mentor Quadri in cold blood, or continue to live his confusing unhappy life. This is exacerbated by the fact that Marcello falls in love with his mentor’s wife Anna. He experiences this dilemma like another existentialist theme, “I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations — one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it — you will regret both.” Marcello’s dilemma is like that of many people: always regretting what could’ve happened. He tries to achieve a middle path by indirectly setting up the ambush outside Quadri’s country house, but trying to prevent his wife from joining him. This inability to commit only leaves him with the consequences of both actions: an unhappy life with a guilty conscience.

Bertolucci provides a view into what happens when one’s life is devoid of agency: Isolation. A major theme in The Conformist is Marcello being singled out and isolated. It comes across in several details, such as his sitting in the back of the car as Manganiello drives, or sitting at the head of the dinner table while the two women in his life chat with each other. He can portray the feeling of loneliness that detaches him from other people, even while they’re in the room. One of the most memorable scenes is during a dancehall sequence when all the dancers form a gigantic circle around Marcello and smother him with their zealousness. This is also made clear in the images of Marcello behind glass; there is a tangible divide between him and the rest of the world.  He can see the other side of the glass in the recording station, and all the extravagant and happy singers, but he is isolated. This image of Marcello behind glass is repeated for the coldest scene in the film: When her husband is murdered, Anna is chased by men and begs Marcello frantically to let her in the car, but he just stares back behind cool glass as she pounds on the window and runs off. This distance has tragic repercussions, as the fascists prove to be the wrong horse to back in the mid 40s.

Marcello begins to isolate himself from everyone he knows: he has a distant and emotionless marriage with Giulia, accuses his blind friend Italo for his own crimes of fascism and murder. The final frame consists of a close up of him sitting at a bench from behind, with metallic bars between him and the camera. His actions have finally caught up with him, and all he can do is ponder. At least until he looks into the camera, at us, with sad eyes. It is here where the man he becomes is fully formed: a prisoner trapped by his guilt and our screen.

2017 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Lucas Neumeyer

NASHVILLE by Lucas Neumeyer, 17
2017 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place

            The essence of Robert Altman’s 1975 film Nashville is the same as the essence of the American spirit, and that is tragedy. Altman hardly ever makes a film about people who are happy, and so Nashville documents the stories of people from different careers, classes, cities, viewpoints, motivations, and experiences. There is no main character (The credits list the actors in alphabetical order), there is no central plot aside from a collection of set pieces, the film acts as a tableau rather than a yarn; The main character is the film itself. This aimless quality highlights how Nashville is not about people, but about culture. The audience is seated in a privileged point of view, as evidenced by the cinematography, which relies on long lenses and sparse editing to convey a voyeuristic feel, but we have to figure out what it is we are spying on. You need only look at the poster to know this film is about America, but what is America?

            That’s a complicated question, naturally, but it becomes a bit less complicated when you consider the context. It’s obvious that what “America” differs throughout history, from every disaster to every accomplishment to every administration, America changed. So when we ask, “What is America?”, we should keep in mind what America was when Nashville was made, and the answer is: one of the worst  periods to be alive since the great depression. Altman’s film was released a year after Nixon’s resignation, four years before the Iran hostage crisis, before and after two energy crisis, and at the tail end of the longest war in United States history. Opal wasn’t off the mark when she looked for America in a junkyard. For the American people, it was a time of cynicism and doubt, and a perfect jumping off point for Reagan’s promise to “Make America great again (That was his actual campaign slogan). The characters, whether or not they want to admit it, are affected by this pessimism, but more importantly, they are in mourning.

            The most important real world event to affect the plot of Nashville is the assassination of John F Kennedy just 12 years earlier. Lady Pearl remembers it in a drunken stupor, “Ruby you sonofabitch. And Oswald. And her. In her little pink suit.” The late Kennedy has been at the center of conspiracy theories in the passing years, but it doesn’t take much digging to see his influence in this film, especially since it ends with a lone gunman at a political rally. Haven Hamilton even calms the crowd saying, “This isn’t Dallas, it’s Nashville!”

            So, yes, this film is sad. It has a wonderful sense of humor and a breezy pace, but they only give way to scenes of sexual humiliation, marital spats, and psychological degeneration. The scene in which aspiring singer Sueleen Gay is coaxed into performing a striptease in place of a song is hard for any decent person to watch. However, these trials and tribulations take on a new meaning when you analyze the central themes that underscore the story.

             There are are detractors of Nashville who say it mocks country music and country singers as a whole, but this argument falls apart when you look at the music of the film itself and how it informs the story. There are large passages which are nothing but a series of live performances by the actors themselves, and some of these songs that feel as though they were written for specific characters (“For the sake of the children”; “My Idaho Home”). The soundtrack was quite famously written and performed by the actors themselves rather than professional singer-songwriters. What some people don’t understand is that this method encapsulates the spirit of country music at the time rather than patronizes it. People loved the work of artists like Johnny Cash because they were honest and personal. When listening to Cash’s music, you never got the feeling that he was lying or grandstanding. He had a confident, one-to-one connection with his audience that is preserved in the tones of Nashville. Several actors even have similar names to the characters they portray (Scott Glenn:Glenn Kelly; Timothy Brown: Tommy Brown)

             When you understand the importance of the music in Nashville, you notice a pattern, namely that most of the songs on the playlist are about two things: perseverance and ambition. It’s expressed in songs like: “Keep-a-goin’”, “Rolling Stone”, “I never get enough”, and, of course, “It don’t worry me”. With this in mind, almost all the character’s struggles are defined by perseverance through tragedy, be it a music career, a political career, or a failed marriage. This comes in many forms and offers many results, which is only natural when we follow such a variety of characters. We follow two aspiring female singers throughout the film: one works hard and yet fails inches from her goal, another is a drifter who lucked her way to success. Mr Greene is devastated by the loss of his wife while his niece couldn’t give a second glance.

            This whole theme of picking yourself up by your bootstraps in the face of tragedy relates back to the state of the country at the time. The American people sank steadily into a state of nihilism and increased crime rates after the death of John Kennedy. Nashville offers, if not a solution, then an observation about the condition of the United States at the time: America is incapable of being discouraged. America, as both a nation and an idea, is too large to be stopped. People from all generations were thrust into a new era whether they wanted to or not. This is what we observe from the ending of this film, one of the greatest of all time. These people are not only not stopped, they’re not even worried. And so, America continued to persevere past its initial 200 years, for better or for worse.        

2017 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Miles Byrne

LA HAINE - Life in the Banilue by Miles Byrne

Of all the art forms, cinema is the most liberating, able to capture and censor reality as it pleases, to stitch together stories and disassemble them, it’s hundred or so years of existence abundant with creative permutations and new ways of expression, from the haunting, angular imagery of German Expressionism to Godard’s anarchistic, free-flowing violations of film form, slashing through the unspoken rules of celluloid with jump cuts and exaggerating the line between seen and unseen, self-reflexive usage of music, editing, and dialogue, producing legendary proto-meta-sequences, like the dancing from Bande a part and the satirical, side-scrolling tracking shots of Week-End .

As time progresses, filmmaker’s have bigger pools of influence to draw from- now, the solemn social realism of postwar Italy could be amalgamated with Nouvelle Vague’s modern sensibilities to craft cinema that reached more deeply into the ethos of its characters and their environments. La Haine is such a film, a shadow of French society that flicker’s and dances with the heartbeat of it’s characters, in a violent waltz to the uncaring cadences of their urban environments. It’s clipped, clean cinematography captures the urban atmosphere with skill and precision, blending hard-hitting social commentary with a definite sence of cinematic style— jump cuts, borderline surreal sequences , and varied lens choices underscored with hip-hop beats are pervasive and integral to the gritty vibrancy of the film’s atmosphere.

What immediately stands out about La Haine is it’s episodic narrative structure- a ticking countdown lends a sense of progress and significance, as well as tension, to events that might otherwise have no meaning- in this case, the listless exploits of Vinz, Hubert, and Sayid. The notion of a “plot” is subverted and reinvented- the events only become noteworthy because they are leading up to a conclusion, the natural conclusion of the flame of hatred that scorches the whole film- the 20 or so hours leading up to Vinz’s demise are important not so much of because what transpires, but because they are the 20 or so hours leading up to Vinz’s demise. Each of it’s chapters, composed of the many brief moments in a day, lead to one brief moment— Vinz’s death.

These chapters are also split down the middle by a two clear-cut halves: the character’s day-to-day life in the banlieues (suburbs) of Paris, and then their excursion into the city itself. The first half introduces to us to Vinz, Sayid, and Hubert— Jewish, Arab, and Black, representative of France’s immigrant population, but also vibrant characters in their own right. Hubert’s thoughtfulness sits opposite Vinz’s rashness and violent tendencies— Sayid quite literally the middleman.

While following these three comrades on their daily routine through the banilue , a sense of community and relative security is established. They amiably greet many of their friends, also ethnically heterogeneous, shown to be at home in their environment, with varying degrees of satisfaction. Hubert, for instance, believes the only way to improve his life is to improve the poverty-stricken banilue , while Vinz believes it can’t be improved. Vinz is shown to be a product of his environment— he often compares himself to others, choosing jail over community service because “everyone has done time.” He is influenced by the hardship around him, and by movies themselves— many American films are mentioned, he mimics Travis Bickle, and ducks into a movie theater at one point to gain some respite.

Almost exactly halfway through the film, a definitive period of communal unity is reached. The rooftop scene has the three friends comfortable with their community, enjoying hot dogs and trash-talking the authorities from above. The police eventually tell them to leave the rooftop-turned-hangout, and its inhabitants— a diverse set ages and ethnicities— are unified in their refusal, any other petty quarrels set aside. This segways into the film’s most expensive set piece— a tracking shot of the whole banlieue, set to a live mixing of ‘Nique la Police,’ a remix of the American track ‘Sound of da Police.’ Here, there is a culture, an amalgamation of differences, observed by the gentle gliding of the camera over people and buildings, and the multilingual, sonically eclectic sound of music that is now as French as it is American.

The second half is differentiated from the first by an immediate aesthetic change. The first half is shot with a wide lens, bringing the character’s closer to the environment. This reflects the closely knitted nature of person, place, and community, particularly in the place where they have been grown up and raised. The second half is shot with a longer lens, illustrating the distance of the characters from their environment- in this case, urban Paris, where people stand out from the background. The sound design reflects this as well— early on, a healthy concoction of human voices, barking dogs, squealing motorbikes, traffic ablaze with car horns— these echoe around buildings, expand into empty spaces, and familiarize the viewer with the ambient noises that occupy the lives of those living in the banlieue.  In Paris, the sound is far less prominent and feels distant from the characters- just snatches of voices and music, the familiar texture of the banilue gone.

The entrance into this second half is marked with a dramatic dolly zoom- the background changes before our very eyes, the characters do not. As Paris shifts into shallow focus, the characters gain importance. The only identifying feature of Paris is the Eiffel Tower, which blinks out, leaving the three friends alone with the cops and skinheads in the dark. The camerawork shifts as well- careful, structured compositions that denote a sense of order and place, complemented by purposeful tracking shots that feel at home in their environment disappear. A new, cinema-verite style emerges, favoring close-ups and hesitant, unsure handheld camerawork, the characters the only constant as they traipse through art galleries, restrooms, and shopping malls, scorned by Paris natives, skinheads, and police alike. It is clear they are not welcome here.

The dynamic between Vinz, Said, and Hubert is crucial to understanding La Haine . Each character is developed through their separate reactions to their environment, but it is when they move as a group of three that the balanced portrait of France’s youth in the banlieues is created. Hubert vies to escape his life, but sells drugs to support his mother, little sister and his brother in jail. His burnt out gym exemplifies the results of a burnt out society; it is here, boxing away at solitary punching bag, where we are introduced. He comments that ‘Vinz probably had a hand in the riot burnings-’ Vinz’s aggressive, self-centered demeanor reflects ‘the malaise of the ghetto’, as commented by an unnamed Parisian. He in turn perpetuates this malaise, the unorganized rioting damaging his own community more than helping it, much like his quest for status and respect within his community rather than working to improve it. Sayid represents the middle ground, more or less content with life in the banlieue . He is most animated, and chooses to accept the poverty and drugs around him as the way life is. These are attitudes follow the characters around; when trying to pick up girls at the art gallery, their amorous, cloutish behavior is rejected- ‘With that attitude, how can we respect you?’ the girls respond.

This is the essential dilemma that La Haine presents: youth, disenfranchised by living among hardship and hatred, unable to assimilate properly into Parisian society, only at home in the very environments that are destroying them, wasting precious time until tragedy strikes. In the case of La Haine , Vinz’s murder at the hands of incompetent police. The government does not help the banlieues , only sensationalizes, condemns, and then returns the violence. ‘Hatred breeds hatred,’ Hubert tells Vinz, before he is drawn back into the fray he has fought to escape. Each character approaches their struggles differently, but the end La Haine is not a film concerned with answers, only stories and their endings.

In this case, a tragedy and the moments that precede it, moments in which the banlieues’ bitter truths are laid bare, by way of drawing on a century of film history- from three second sepia captures of society’s mundane to full-fledged portraits of the modern era. France’s unique cinematic identity melds with an unsentimental neorealist narrative- it encapsulates the fears and furies of it’s leads, but what’s more it grounds them in a real environment, celebrating cinema’s remarkable ability to glimpse the lives of others, factual or fictional, and understand a little more about how to break that vicious circle.

Robert Eggar's The Witch

by Lucy Johns, mentor

How is a reviewer steeped in the teachings of the Enlightenment to talk about the new film “The Witch”? Its billing as a horror film, a genre unknown to this reviewer, presents further challenge. Yet it comes in the guise of historical drama, the story of a family beset by torments in mid-17th century Massachusetts. An epilogue explains that nearly all the dialogue comes from transcripts of actual witch trials, a common practice in that time and place. But this film is not a recreation of that time and place and the injustice that could and did tear families and communities apart, as for example, in Arthur Miller’s play “The Crucible.” While grounded in the the fanaticism of the time, it veers into magical realism, or more accurately, magical insanity.

“The Witch” begins with a disembodied voice questioning why the settlers left all they knew and came where they did while the camera hovers over a child’s face, listening intently. Eventually another voice scolds that such questions are out of order, whoever is speaking is supposed to answer, not ask, questions. The film ends with a disembodied voice, equally insistent. The same voice? The speaker, standing before a tribunal with his family, is sentenced to exile for pride and lack of humility. The family departs as some Indian prisoners are escorted into the village by soldiers. A fate the family is presumably escaping.

On a farm hacked out of the wilderness, things start to go wrong. A baby disappears in the time it takes his sister to cover her eyes and say “Peekaboo.” A pair of twins, five- six years old, starts acting crazy. The oldest child, a girl, confesses grievous sins to her god and scares a sibling by pretending to be a witch. A hideous image of a baby being caressed by a gnarly hand that brings a knife down between his little legs is the first hint that something is more than just wrong, something supernatural is at work. The second oldest, a boy and his father’s principle helpmate, gets lost in the forest behind the farm and encounters a demon woman. He is returned to the farm, deathly ill, throwing up an apple with a bite out of it. Blood comes out of a white goat being milked. A black goat is a killer and speaks with a human voice. Women freed of religious restraint murder, dance naked, and ascend into the sky.

This potent Christian/pagan symbolism occurs within the frame of a family sunk in a “modern” version of deep-set superstition, fundamentalist religion. The father’s response to every mishap is prayer and catechism. Played with remarkable intensity and psychological insight by Ralph Ineson, this is a man completely in thrall to a god he assumes listens to his every word. Yet he is not a harsh person. He is tender to his wife, wild with grief and fear of god’s vengeance. He confides in his son and loves his daughter. But he also sins and lies in the interest of family harmony. His only release from the tension of betrayal and mysterious events is cutting wood, which he does several times during the film, each episode filmed from a different angle, each infused with greater and greater fury.

The cinematography of “The Witch” is extraordinary. Muted colors, dramatic compositions, production design, special effects, the most revealing camera angle and distance for capturing dread, horror, pain, fear of god and so much else unknown testify to the talent of the cinematographer, Jarin Blaschke and the first-time director, Robert Eggers. Eggers also wrote the script and is credited as a production and costume designer for fairy-tale movies. The two have created a bewitching visual work you can’t stop watching while your mind rejects the absurdity of much that transpires.

What lifts The Witch out of the cheap thrills horror genre is not only the artistry but its seriousness of purpose. It explores a provocative intellectual question: what is the nature of magical thinking? The family is steeped in Calvinist precepts: any human is sinful nearly beyond redemption; any misfortune reflects inadequate belief in god; the devil lurks everywhere, staring from the eyes of animals - goats in particular - and sometimes taking over people. The film suggests that religion suffuses the mind with fantasy, a habit of thought that would readily assume a devil to be the origin and explanation of any mystery. The audience, applying a 20th century lens, sees sexual repression, woman as the source of evil (that apple! A forest bacchanalia!), absence of the most elementary psychological insight within the family dynamic. And yet, the film seems to ask: Are the supernatural images projections of deranged minds or…do they capture realities beyond human ken?

What is the difference, anyway, between modern theories of cause and effect, between scientific explanations of the seemingly inexplicable and the primitive assumptions (historically and globally pervasive, one must note) so expertly dramatized in The Witch? This film’s artful symbolism and implicit challenge to the modern sensibility linger.

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Epilogue: This reviewer is reminded of “The Return of Martin Guerre” (France; 1982). A French film about a medieval village and war widow bewitched by a transient soldier, it introduces, at the very end, an exemplar of the modern mind, sent by the authorities to investigate. The official seeks truth, groping for what that is and how to establish it. “The Witch” doesn’t offer any link to modernity, preferring to follow the logic of magical insanity to a visually enticing conclusion.

© Lucy Johns March 7, 2016

2017 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Timmy Rouede

Reed’s THE THIRD MAN by Timmy Rouede
2017 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place

Many people are more fearful of the things that are yet to happen. If a person were to see a frightening image of Nosferatu, with no knowledge of him before hand, fear and troubling thoughts would form from thinking of what the scary person in the picture is going to do. Carol Reed’s Noir thriller The Third Man utilizes this type of fear to drive the audience off tract as much as the films pessimistic characters are.

The Third Man follows American pulp western writer Holly Martins, as he tries to uncover mysteries surrounding the death of his friend, Harry Lime, and ends up learning more than he bargained for. Throughout this flytrap of a film, it is evident that the most alarming threats to us are the ones we can’t see coming, and that when things are taken out of context, mistakes are made. The film excels at catching the audience and its characters off-guard, a state which increases the dominion of menace.  

The Third Man emphasizes the fact that malefactors are more dangerous towards the people who can’t see them coming. This is reflected by the fact that all of the characters killed in the film are killed while off-guard. While the Porter at Harry’s apartment building is busy telling Martins on the street below that he has more info on Harry’s “Death”, he realizes too late that someone off screen (likely Harry), is in the room with him, and the porter is murdered.

During the sewer chase, while Martins is trying to get Harry (who is in cover) to surrender, British sergeant Paine, who has not noticed Harry, goes to Martins, urging Martins to get to cover. While Paine is distracted and out in the open, Harry shoots and kills Paine. These unfortunate deaths show that people are in more danger when they don’t expect real danger to come their way, right away.

Other people who did not expect to be victims are the families Harry sells diluted penicillin to. Vienna has a low supply of penicillin at this time, making it very important and very valuable. When the families are stricken with meningitis and gangrene legs, any type of relief will do, even if it is from the black market. As British police major Calloway exclaims “The lucky children died and the unlucky ones went of their heads” after the children took the diluted penicillin. If the parents knew Harry thought (and said) people were better off dead, they would take their chances with the meningitis, or find a moral black marketeer. Unfortunately, they did not see the consequences, and wrongfully suffered.

With Harry’s tactics of staying in the shadows to take out his enemies and benefit his needs doing him good, it is no wonder that the same type of tactics help the police bring Harry down. With Martins as the bait at a rendezvous to meet Harry, and the police out of plain site, even when Harry’s lover, Anna, yells to warn Harry of the trap, the police still get closer to Harry than they ever were before. Immediately after Paine’s death, while Harry, who has not noticed Calloway, is running away, the camera shows Calloway literally coming out of the shadows and shooting Harry, incapacitating him. This shows that anyone can become a victim when their killer is veiled, even actual killers. However, the film shows that people are not only victims when distracted, but also void of logical thinking.

In the state of distraction, not knowing what is to come or what is happening makes people think quite irrationally. This is made most evident when the porter is found murdered. As the porter is carried away and dozens of passers-by are watching, a small boy notices Martins with Anna, who were planning on seeing the porter. Earlier, this boy saw Martins argue with the Porter. Since the boy does not understand English, and does not understand Martin’s role with the porter, he assumes the worst and urgently tells his father that Martins murdered the porter. Soon everyone in the crowd thinks Martins is guilty, as the camera pans on their faces, some concerned, some angered, but all focused. As Martins and Anna realize what is happening and run away, the little boy leads the group of villagers in the chase in a mob-like fashion. This sequence shows that in a scenario taken out of context, people will consider what they think is happening as factual evidence, even if others are put at risk. These types of people are so confident in their logic, that they are willing to be lead by anyone who thinks the same way. It is not the best way to think.

After Martins and Anna escape, Martins heads to his hotel to get a cab to take him to the police headquarters. Once Martins is in the cab, the cab begins driving quickly, and Martins begins thinking unreasonably. Martins is visibly in distress, begging the cab driver to slow down, and asks the driver whether he has orders to kill him. Martins is clearly thinking of the worst possible outcomes, likely thinking since the porter was killed, he may be next. It is not until they reach their destination, where a shocked Martins discovers he was being brought to a book club he was invited to. Martins was so focused on solving Harry’s “murder” that he forgot about the book club. His lack of preparedness is reflected more when he struggles to answer the attendees questions (Though It is likely that all of us would struggle to categorize the work of James Joyce).

Taking things out of context can cause, at best, unintended feelings, and at worst, attempted and/or successful murder. Martins faulty logic is on grand display at the films end. At Harry’s 2nd funeral, instead of following Calloway’s advice on being sensible and taking the last plane out of Vienna, Martins insist he “hasn’t got a sensible name” to him and waits for Anna. Matins thinks he may have formed a relationship with Anna in this whole affair, and that he can’t leave her. Realistically, thoughts of their future together are distracted, then murdered, as Anna walks right past Martins, not even acknowledging his existence. Maybe Martins should have remembered that Anna actively tried to help Harry escape, and proclaimed after Harry’s fake death that she would never love again. Maybe Martins was focused on other things. After Anna is finally out of frame, Martins casually smokes a cigarette, likely realizing he just doomed himself to stay in Vienna by thinking he could have a future with the lover of a man who killed children. The Third Man skillfully portrays how people perceive their dark thoughts as pure facts, with outcomes differing in severity.

In Martin’s quest for resolution in Vienna, he finds that the lack of observation makes victims, and the abundance of imagination makes bigots. These unsettling messages are the kinds that can be applied to practically anything and anyone, today. Never be unsuspecting in unforgiving environments (or die), think logically in chaotic scenarios (or doom your future), and don’t follow misguided logic (or look like an idiot and/or wrongfully kill someone). Today we live in a world where we are, at the very least, concerned for what’s to come. However, if we take a better look at the frightening image that is today, and think optimistically, I know we will likely make decisions better, than that of Lime and Martins.

2017 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Owen Reese

The Dark Journey of FANNY AND ALEXANDER by Owen Reese (16)
2017 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place

The colorful, haunting 1983 Ingmar Bergman epic Fanny and Alexander dramatizes the battle between two ways of understanding the world: the way of magic, mystery and freedom, against rigid, rule-driven Christianity. The two children at the center of the film, Fanny and Alexander, live happily with a warm, spirited, extended family until a disaster turns their world upside down. They’re thrown from one world into another, each world being represented by the different houses they find themselves in over the course of the film. The story is their odyssey back to the peaceful, balanced world where started.

The film opens with Alexander alone, wandering around his family’s large, lavish home, a place that seems endless, without boundary, and full of mystery. Alexander is imaginative, perceptive and curious about his world. When he looks up at a statue of a nude woman, she begins to move. The moment is interrupted by his grandmother walking in, and asking him if he wants to play cards. He doesn’t respond, just looks startled and so she leaves him alone because although she didn’t see the statue, somehow she understands. (The grandmother is the film’s most dignified and thoughtful character, though she is always on the sidelines.) The moving statue is the first moment of magic we see. It’s an image of something natural, sensual, human. But it’s also unpredictable and startling. It could represent the spirit of magic, passion and freedom.

Alexander’s father and mother are introduced to us on Christmas Eve when the whole extended family comes together for a big, joyful party. The grandmother hosts, and we learn that she is a wise and caring woman who watches over her children. At the party, everybody – Alexander’s uncles, the kind maids, other family members – are singing and running through the house together, and the children experience this as an entirely sweet, innocent event of family life, Christianity in this house is a warm, celebratory faith about community, love, and safety. Unlike magic, it isn’t unpredictable or startling. It provides security in an otherwise chaotic world. Some unspecified amount of time after the festivities end, Alexander’s father is on stage rehearsing Hamlet, playing the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and Alexander is watching. Suddenly his father freezes, forgets where he is, and collapses on the floor. He dies – but comes back to as a ghost, exactly like Hamlet’s father. Both children see their father whenever their lives are about to change drastically (he also once appears to his mother, the children’s grandmother). They have a special connection to their father that isn’t strictly Christian.

The death of their father has serious consequences. After losing her husband, their beautiful, angelic mother marries an icy old bishop, a God-fearing man who wants control and order, nothing else. The mother and her children move into the old man’s plain, gray house, and bring none of their personal belongings with them. No piece of the humanism and spirituality from their previous life. The house is full of boundaries, rules, and barriers. The doors are locked, the windows are barred, and the children are not allowed to have toys. The grandmother’s house was full of soft furniture, warm colors, warm people. Everything here is hard and cold. There’s magic in the house, but it’s restricted by the tight walls of uncompromising Christianity, and God is used as a tool to scare the children into submission. When Alexander speaks of ghosts, he’s punished severely and told never to lie again. These are the horrors of an overly religious life. No freedom, no imagination, no color (quite literally). Everything is scraped back, tied up, clamped down, just like the hair of the women in the household.

The children are rescued. It’s hard to say how, but we know that a sorcerer, their great uncle Isak, a Jewish man (his religion is an intentional choice – it puts him outside the whole conventional Christian world) casts a spell and then takes them to safety. The children arrive at Isak’s house, and in it find marionettes lining the walls. They’re told never leave their room after dark for their own safety. Of course, Alexander wanders off that night in search of a toilet, and ends up exploring, just as he explored his family home at the beginning of the film. Unlike the Bishop’s barren house, this place is cluttered with magical relics and other strange items. And then the boy hears the voice of God. He cowers in fear. The booming voice comes from behind a door, slightly ajar. And just as God is stepping out to show Himself, He is revealed to be just the sorcerer’s nephew, holding a puppet of God. Just like God was previously used as a puppet by adults to scare children metaphorically, in this case, it was literal.

The nephew shows Alexander around the house, and introduces him to Ismael, a man (played by a woman, a large boundary that’s dissolved) who’s locked away for the safety of others, he’s told. Alexander spends some time with Ismael and begins to understand how dangerous and evil unbounded magic can be. Ismael asks him to write down his name. He writes ‘Alexander Ekdahl’ but upon second viewing, he sees he’s written ‘Ismael Retzinsky’ instead. Ismael says, “Perhaps we’re the same person, with no boundaries” It goes to show how uncontrollable this new environment is, and tells us that Ismael is simply the dark side of Alexander’s own mind, locked away for the safety of others.

The scene ends with Ismael teaching Alexander voodoo; he can tell Alexander wants to hurt the Bishop, but can’t admit it. “You won’t speak of that which is constantly in your thoughts” Ismael says. He describes the old man’s death and when Alexander says “Don’t talk like that” Ismael replies: “It is not I talking, it is yourself.” As he speaks, the Bishop’s bed bursts into flames and the Bishop burns to death.. Alexander’s mother is freed. The sorcerer’s house brought out Alexander’s power to make life-saving changes, but it also brought out the murderous hatred he held inside for one man, and caused that man’s death.

The film ends on a relatively happy note. It shows the extended family reconciled and back together for another party. It’s now springtime and the world inside the grandmother’s house is exceptionally bright. There’s an abundance of the color pink and everyone’s celebrating two new babies born into the family. The scene portrays a vision of rebirth. Life has found its order again both in the real and magical sides of the world. Now there’s balance.

The key to that balance is Fanny and Alexander’s grandmother. Throughout the film, she’s been strong and caring, a symbol of stability. She embraces the best parts of Christianity, the love, the ritual, the celebration, as we see in the beginning, but she’s also open to the world of magic and nature, and has a Jewish lover (Uncle Isak). The children aren’t the only ones who notice the ghost of their father, so does she. Her world is the one we see in the large, warm happy house. It isn’t dull and dead like the Bishop’s house, but it also isn’t a hellish, scary pit of mystical energy like the marionette home.

But to finish, we get one chilling reminder of recent events. Alexander walks down a hallway and behind him appears the Bishop’s ghost. He knocks Alexander to the floor and tells him he will never be free. It’s a reminder that he may feel safe in his cozy home, but there are things he’s learned that will haunt him forever. He can never regain the innocence he lost during his journey, and he will never forget how dangerous the world can be.

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Lilo Bergensten Oliv

Isolation and Unfamiliarity in Apocalypse Now

by Lilo Bergensten Oliv (Lowell)

I watched Apocalypse Now for the first time, ten days into a citywide shelter-in-place order and about a month into what Twitter was calling the end of the world. I hadn’t spoken to anyone outside my family in almost two weeks, my sleep schedule was abandoned entirely, and my list of activities to occupy myself with was becoming so short that I decided to get a start on an English assignment. So it was about ten at night when I started watching, and almost one by the time I reached the last minutes of the film. After nearly three hours of machine gun fire, helicopter blades, “Ride of The Valkyries”, and the Rolling Stones, the closing shot was quiet and placid – just a figure on a boat on a river, the quiet murmur of an FM radio and the lapping of waves.

Francis Ford Coppola’s Vietnam war epic is a gut punch, a smoke grenade, a spray of swamp water straight to the face. It is overflowing with color and sound and emotion and vitriol, packed with nuances and messages. But the interpretation that lends itself most easily to the viewer is the one that feels most relevant in the moment, and so the concepts that struck me the most, sitting in the living room alone, watching the closing screen fade to scrolling credits with bleary eyes, were isolation and unfamiliarity. In Apocalypse Now, protagonist Captain Jack Willard is pushed to his physical and mental limits, forced by the carnage and complexity of his mission to meet moral crisis after moral crisis and explore the question that I myself am now asking: what does the human mind do when shoved into the unknown, when left to contemplate its surroundings, its own choices? What does it reach for to calm itself? Unfortunately for Willard, the answers are difficult to find, but the film nevertheless explores them through the actions of its characters and its use of cinematography.

A moment at the beginning of the film places Willard on a beach with a Colonel who is meant to show him to the boat he will be using on his assignment. The Colonel is electric and unflappable and capable of shouting out orders with a cigarette in his mouth, a thoroughly Californian military man with a passion for surfing. As rockets and grenades rain down on the shore, the Colonel tells the soldiers around him to try the waves, which he insists are excellent. When met by reluctance, he yells “If I say it’s safe to surf this beach, Captain, it’s safe to surf this beach!” and so he and three of his soldiers crawl out of trenches in the mud to surf on waters being bombarded with explosives and crashing helicopters. The visual juxtaposition of the extremely hazardous circumstances with aquatic recreation feels bizarre, which is, of course, the intended effect. The screen is bright with gleaming water, white sand, blue skies, and fiery blasts. War is still Hell here, but the Colonel is determined to make the most of it, to bring something with him from home to comfort him and his men.

Once they have acquired a boat, Willard and his team venture down the river towards the disgraced Colonel Kurtz’s hideout in Cambodia. Just about every other scene in this section of the film opens with a pan through fog, smoke, or fire obscuring the boat. They are alone in the wilderness, silhouettes under a hazy, surreal facade punctuated with explosions. Willard fixates on the dossier he has been given on Kurtz, dissecting his past and interrogating his motives. Meanwhile, his own moral direction begins to swing astray. He executes civilians, leads the other soldiers into dangerous situations, and begins to question the purpose of his assignment. As the mission devolves and his companions are killed, more frames feature only Willard, in close-ups of his face gazing into the aether and shrouded by mist or night. He is becoming enveloped by the strangeness of the world he has entered. Unable to trust his surroundings or himself, the only thing he can truly focus on is Colonel Kurtz.

When he is finally introduced, Kurtz is shown only partially obscured by darkness; a quiet voice in the shadow and light catching on the suggestion of a face. Although this is mainly the result of Marlon Brando’s refusal to be filmed from the waist down due to his weight gain, it draws a parallel between Kurtz and Willard as they become more similar to each other in one major aspect: their disillusionment. They meet at the very end of the film, when Willard has grown so conflicted that he cannot decide whether he truly should carry out his mission. Thus, they are now both in the dark, isolated from their families, their values, and the army they used to be so loyal to. Kurtz is described by Willard as a man who is torn up and destroyed, so captivated by the terrors he has witnessed and the violence he has committed that he is consumed by them. He monologues feverishly to Willard about “the horror” that he refuses to let himself forget. Kurtz refuses to give up command, refuses to leave his post. He is obsessed with the fear he faces.

When entering the unknown and the unfamiliar, whether in war or pandemic, whether on foreign, battle-torn seas or locked up at home, we find something to cling onto; be it cigarettes, rock and roll, surfing, morality, or fear. Apocalypse Now will certainly leave an impression on me, especially considering I’ll have a lot of time alone with my thoughts to dwell on it in these coming weeks. In the meantime, I’ll try to avoid starting a cult in the Cambodian jungle. I think I’ll stick to playing Tetris.

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Alex Clare

Apocalypse Now - The Horror of War

By Alex Clare

“The horror, the horror.” These were the final words of Colonel Walter Kurtz in Francis Ford Coppola’s 1979 war film, Apocalypse Now. Unlike most American war films, which glorify the heroism and grand spectacle of war, Apocalypse Now illustrates an honest depiction of all aspects of the Vietnam War, horror included.

Right from the beginning of the film, Coppola introduces the horror of war in the form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Our protagonist, Captain Willard, is returning to war after having been sent back to America. Imagery and audio of choppers flying, forests being scorched, and the chaos of war are superimposed on Willard’s restless head. Immediately, we can see the effects war has on a man. Willard can’t integrate back into society, all he knows is war. He needs war. He needs to be given another mission, and his wishes are granted. His mission is to find and kill Colonel Walter Kurtz, who the military deems too crazy to be kept alive. The war has gotten to his head, and he’s become a bloodthirsty maniac. However, we come to find that every soldier in the war has become a killing machine.

In many American films, war is glorified by depicting heroic characters saving the day with loud, triumphic scores. Unlike the typical American war film, Apocalypse Now’s score is eerie and subtle. In Apocalypse Now, war is ironically glorified to criticize the morals of the American people. The characters are enthusiastic about committing terrible acts against innocent people. War is even sexualized in one scene in which Playboy models dance for the soldiers while holding guns. Any morsel of sympathy has been buried deep within the exoskeleton of masculinity that the soldiers exhibit. They call the Viet Cong by the name “Charlie.” This effectively dehumanizes the enemy by categorizing each individual under one homogenous entity. The soldiers don’t know who Charlie is, they just know he must die.

Colonel Kilgore, the commander of an attack helicopter squadron, is the epitome of the emotionless killing machine. He agrees to invade a beach, killing numerous innocent civilians, because of the prospect that the beach may have good waves for surfing. Kilgore’s character has all of the stereotypical masculine values that were instilled into young men of this era. In perhaps the most famous scene in the film, the helicopter squadron annihilates a Vietnemese village as Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” plays. In this brilliant use of music, the irony is that the song is about a group of flying women warriors. The soldiers are so engrossed in the war that they are ignorant to the fact that their anthem is about powerful women, the antithesis of their masculine personas. It is a horrifying notion that the men of this era could be turned into killing machines because their masculine values are exposed to a war.

While Captain Willard already had war experience, other characters entered the war without any exposure to such experiences. The most notable of these characters is Lance Johnson, a surfer. Lance comes from a background that is vastly different from what he’ll come to experience in Vietnam. He grows fond of a puppy that the crew finds after killing a group of Vietnamese civilians. This puppy is a symbol of innocence in a land that is becoming less and less innocent each day. While he holds onto the puppy for as long as he can, Lance eventually loses the puppy during firefight with the Viet Cong, an experience that traumatizes him and contributes to his loss of innocence. Throughout the film, Johnson’s entire appearance changes drastically. He goes from having a perfectly toned, unscathed figure to being completely inundated in Vietnam through his appearance. He paints his face in order to blend into his environment and he makes a sort of headdress out of an arrow that was shot at him, fully embracing the violence of war. It is a common motif in the film for characters’ appearances to reflect the effect the war is having on them. Willard himself completely camouflages himself as he finally completes his mission. In the moments in which Willard commits his most cruel acts, the soil of Vietnam covers his skin. He is fully consumed by the war.

The horror of the war is incredibly harmful to almost every character in the film. However, one character stands as the lone exception to this generalization. Colonel Kurtz has learned to accept the horror of the war rather than be harmed by it. He has become acquainted with the horror, and as a result he thrives in this environment. While other characters may thrive in a war environment, they are still greatly harmed by the war, whether it's from PTSD or because they’ve lost their human qualities and have become war machines. Kurtz is not harmed by the war, but rather benefits from it, and that’s because he embraces its horror. When he is killed, it is intercut with the ceremonial slaughter of a bull. This powerful moment drives home the idea that Kurtz has embraced the culture of Vietnam. After Captain Willard kills Colonel Kurtz, images of war once again spiral in his head. This serves as a book end for the film. The difference is that this time, Willard understands the horror of war, and that is conveyed by Kurtz’ final words replaying in his head: “The horror, the horror.” Captain Kurtz, the embodiment of the horror of war is finally dead: the only semblance of a happy ending in the film. However, the horror of war still lives on.