More Than One Lesson

dir. Francis Ford Coppola

Francis Ford Coppola’s mafia opus is so effective because of the way it draws us into Michael’s descent to the dark side. As the film begins, we understand how he wants to distance himself from the family “business.” But slowly, gradually, we want in just as much as he does. Emotions are heightened, lines are blurred, and suddenly there’s no reliable moral compass. Michael is no longer concerned about what’s right and wrong, but about what he has to do. This fractured moral tale is told with haunting cinematography and explosive performances from many of the greatest American actors of the ‘70s. Suspenseful, emotional, and propulsive, The Godfather is the mob movie to end all mob movies.

dir. Frank Capra

Once upon a time, we were sold on the American Dream, a lofty, fairy tale concept that convinced anyone willing to buy into it that they could achieve anything they strived for as long as they worked hard for it. George Bailey wanted to believe in it. Americans post-World War II waned to believe in it. We all want to believe in it. That doesn’t necessarily mean that Capra and It’s a Wonderful Life believe in it. Critically and commercially ignored upon its release, It’s a Wonderful Life gained its status as a classic decades later in TV syndication around Christmas, a time of year when idealism is at its peak. That’s not to imply that there’s anything contradictory about the season with which the film has become synonymous, but rather that the hope and good cheer associated with bot the holiday and the film are destinations at which we arrive after a long, arduous journey rather than inherent constants. Like we all gradually do, George Bailey discovers that the American dream isn’t so much a dream as it is a system, and that the system asks much of its participants including pain, compromise, and sacrifice. The remarkable prescience and gravity of George’s trials remains relevant decades later because of the emerging complexities in its characters and story as well as the universal truths that find resonance in both sides of an increasingly partisan political landscape: conservatives can appreciate a small business owner who strives to provide for his family, whereas liberals can appreciate a motley community refusing to cower to the whims of the 1%. It’s a film that morphs and caters its appeal across generations and just so happens to ring most true at a time when connections across boundaries are more important than ever.

dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer

Carl Theodor Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc is perhaps the most modern film ever made. This statement is especially significant when understanding that the film itself is very much a product of the silent era. Dreyer’s camera, style, and profound sense of composition are crammed with the brand of legendary cinematic innovation connected so closely to the pre-sound silent era, yet his overall execution of the film feels very much like a yet to be understood tone from the future; a disconnected temporal aesthetic haunts the film’s very frames, constructing an almost alien space that is neither connected to the past nor the present. Dreyer’s spectatorial vantage point on the world of the film feels somehow inhuman; we witness both Joan and her accusers from behind a glorified visual prospective, one in which the very nature of human emotion is presented within its purest form. Joan is often viewed from a high angled close-up, her heart-breaking face filling the screen simultaneously with passion and hope, yet terror and fear. Dreyer’s frustrated camera movements allow Joan’s space to feel broken and dangerous, yet his closeness to her physical presence represents the warmth and mercy of her heart. The style of the piece elevates human brokenness past the point of mere presentation, reflecting upon a world normalised by shame and persecution, while at the same time offering a glimpse of forgiveness and compassion via a passionate maintaining of faith in the face of persecution. The film is an extraordinary work of art, operating profoundly on both an artistic and spiritual level, while at the same time offering a mystical sense of personality, as though the film itself was born from outside the human experience, looking in with both shame and sadness, yet coming out with nothing but praise and wholehearted grace.     

dir. Alfred Hitchcock

I first saw Psycho when I was six years old.

I saw it before I knew anything about it. I saw it before I knew the fate of poor Marion Crane. I saw it without knowing what was really going on with Norman’s mother. I saw it without the cultural significance and iconic legacy of the infamous shower scene bouncing through my head.

The movie affected me so deeply that it has never dropped lower than my top five favorite movies of all time. It terrified and thrilled me as a child. It fascinated and surprised me with its twists. To this day, I am still slightly anxious whenever I step into the shower.

But, chances are, you have either already seen Psycho or already know most of the cards in its cinematic deck. Initial audiences were not allowed to enter the theater after the film had begun, but audiences today are so saturated with Norman Bates references, spoofs, and clichés (not to mention a popular prequel TV show) that a recent viewing with my friend’s teenage son provoked laughter when Marion finally took that fateful shower, even though he had never seen the film before.

I understood, though. In today’s climate where the shock bar for violence in horror films has elevated beyond the stratosphere, that shower scene’s restraint and calculated editing is seen by fresh audiences as a step backwards instead of as the groundbreaking, daring, and horrifying moment its first audiences found it to be.

It’s difficult to appreciate, apart from the observational distance of a museum patron examining a Rembrandt, just how influential and important Psycho is to horror cinema and to films in a broader way. The atypical narrative shift, the defiance of traditional protagonist treatment, the skin-of-its-teeth censorship approval, and the overly talkative final moments where everything is explained could be seen as detriments to the film’s impact rather than defining characteristics of it.

So my opinion is that the ideal time to watch this movie is when you’re 6 years old. If 6 sounds offensively young, then pick your own more appropriate age when your mind isn’t geared to watch for twist endings and your heart still trusts that things are gonna work out ok for all the good guys.

Because in 1960, Alfred Hitchcock — a director who had come to be known for sweeping suspense adventures and lavish mystery thrillers — focused his storytelling powers on a much more intimate and vulnerable tale about a woman who made one horribly impulsive decision colliding with a mother and her son whose secluded little world was a domestic venus fly trap. A director known for getting the heroes home safely put a lovely and impetuous heroine in the place where she’s most exposed and then unleashed a predator after her. He flipped the expectations on his standard “innocent man” trope and in the process shocked and horrified his audience, legitimized horror cinema, and created one of his most memorable and powerful masterpieces.

dir. Clyde Bruckman, Buster Keaton

It’s hard to imagine an audience not being marveled by the technical, physical, and comedic achievements in Buster Keaton’s The General. At the time of its release, the film was considered a flop critically and financially. Today, in an age when so many amazing cinematic visuals can be created digitally, viewers can appreciate The General to a degree that the audience of its time never could. Keaton’s comedic timing and absolute dedication to his vision is seen from beginning to end in heart-stopping fashion. What we see on screen is not an optical illusion. There are no special effects that will age poorly. There’s no suspension of disbelief necessary in The General, you believe and are enthralled by it from beginning to end.

In an age and culture where “bigger” is almost always better, the titular giant in Steven Spielberg’s The BFG illustrates that big is nice, but does come with some trouble. Visually gorgeous with a handful of grin-inducing moments, but dragged down by a sleepy tone, this could be said of the film itself.

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If you can maneuver around the initial wall of overly-warm sentimentality that stands thick in the middle of Little Boy, and if you don’t mind the multiple themes tossed at you like a juggler trying to impress a children’s birthday party, then you’ll eventually get to a colorful-if-shaky treatment of that most nagging of Christian mandates: “Have faith.”

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“Beauty isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

So says a particularly incisive fashion designer in Nicolas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon. The quote is a bit on the nose, but certainly seems to be the mantra of Refn himself. His films have always been visually striking, even when treading familiar narrative ground. Refn’s ability to marry sound and image, crafting an overall tone that is both jarring and haunting, distinguishes him as one of the most unique directors working today. And while I haven’t always responded to the stories Refn has chosen to tell – and felt them to be somewhat incongruous with the style with which he tells them – The Neon Demon seems like the film he was born to make. Finally, the vapid shallow beauty inherent in Refn’s preferred filmmaking choices matches that of the characters we’re watching. The film is ultimately gorgeous, meditative, and extremely trashy, making it one of the most interesting cinematic experiences of the year.

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Two specific films in Pixar’s canon seemed least likely to warrant a sequel. One was Up, the other was Finding Nemo. Both had complete stories with what felt like closed loops that would only lend themselves to sequels with the most forceful of contrivances. Not that the rest of Pixar’s stories weren’t complete, they just existed in worlds which begged to tell more stories, unlike the definitive closure at the end of Finding Nemo.

So when Finding Dory was announced, I rolled my eyes. It already felt forced. It felt like they were seeking to capitalize on the appeal of a breakout character to market new toys. It felt, even from the title, repetitive and redundant. But when the credits rolled and the lights came up, those feelings couldn’t have been more forgotten.

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It was a day filled with stress and anxiety. Bills needed to be paid with less than enough money. Deadlines had passed without completed work. Conversations had ranged from tense and sensitive to outright heated arguments. I felt incompetent and ineffective in every endeavor I put my hand to, whether personal or professional. I couldn’t turn around without offending someone, being misunderstood, or letting somebody down.

I probably should have taken a walk. You know, fresh air and all that. I’m a Christian, so I probably should have prayed harder about things. Maybe read my bible or listened to a Hillsong CD. But I already felt so embarrassed and even a little ashamed that the thought of trying harder to do the thing I’m supposed to do felt like setting myself up for one more failure. So I did the thing I knew would demand almost nothing from me.

I watched a scary movie.

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