Joel and
Ethan Coen’s Fargo opens,
appropriately, in Fargo, North Dakota, although this is the only scene in the
movie to actually take place in the title location. Over the opening credits we
see a car, barely visible through the fog in the distance as it makes its slow
progression through the snowy, bluish gray landscape. The tan Sierra goes up
and down on the frozen-over roads, occasionally disappearing into snowy voids.
The Coens’ Midwest is bleak and ominous, a mood perfectly underlined by Carter
Burwell’s gloomy score. The brothers and virtuoso director of photography and
long-time collaborator Roger Deakins create an epic landscape of near mythical
proportions, if only for the purpose of contrasting it with the ordinariness
and decidedly unheroic nature of the characters that inhabit it. Contradictions
like this one abound in the Coens’ universe; their work has always defied
definition. They play fast and loose in terms of plot and refuse to be
constrained by the formal imperatives of conventional narrative, stitching
together a number of different genres and in the end transcending such
conventions altogether. Fargo starts
out as a perfect-crime drama, but soon embraces conventions of the noir, the
thriller, and tragedy, all with a big, darkly humorous smile on its lips.
Intro
I love movies. I have loved movies all my life. I grew up on them. When I was eight years old, I managed to convince myself I would make movies when I grew up. Now I am in the process of getting a degree in Film Studies. I write about film more than ever before, partly because I have to for my classes, mostly because I enjoy it, because I have something to write about. Sometimes it helps me understand the film better; sometimes it helps me understand myself better.I created this blog as a place to showcase my work, and also as an incentive to keep writing reviews, analyses, and essays over breaks, when there’s no one here to grade me.I have tried many times, and failed, to explain in a coherent manner why it is that I love films. Here is my best—and most coherent—guess.
Showing posts with label William H. Macy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label William H. Macy. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Small Town America on Film: Pleasantville, Far from Heaven, and Revolutionary Road
The small town is “a deeply rooted symbol in the country’s
collective consciousness,” more than a place, it’s “a distinct life-style with
its own set of values,” and, implicitly, its own set of drawbacks (Levy 15).
The phrase itself has come to carry a double layer of meaning, at once
sentimental and condescending. It has been a “permanent staple of the American
cinema” since its inception (Levy 16). The image of the small town in film has
changed drastically over the past century, influenced by social and historical
events and phases of the country, from an idealized and romanticized version in
the 1930s, to the idea of small town as prison, a repressive environment of
conformity and dull homogeneity in the 1950s, and everything in between.
However, from the very beginning, it has been the image of the ideal, rather
than its realization, that has ensured the survival of the small town as myth,
“at once historical (specific) and universal (atemporal),” providing both “a
version of concrete history and a vision of existence” (MacKinnon 3, Levy 20). Gary
Ross’ Pleasantville (1998), Todd
Haynes’ Far From Heaven (2002), and
Sam Mendes’ Revolutionary Road (2008)
all depict the less-than-sunny side of small towns and suburbia, in a very
personal way, and at the same time their characters stand in as representatives
for society as a whole, individuals who gave in to the idea of the middle-class
American Dream of success in the small town, and found themselves trapped by
the environment’s blandness, boredom, and the constant obsession of keeping up
with the Joneses
All of these movies take place in the fifties, and it has
been that era, more than any other, that seems to epitomize and perpetuate the
image of the suburban/small town ideal, chock-full of family values carried “to
the heights of saccharine platitudinousness” in shows like Ozzie & Harriet, Father
Knows Best, and Leave it to Beaver,
“shows with lots of teeth—teeth that were all evenly spaced, capped, and pearly
white. But not teeth that actually bit into anything, [in] a world nicely
contained in a box in which there were no problems that couldn’t be solved in
twenty-two minutes,” (Simon 67, Wynne-Jones 31). These “kinder, gentler” times
we reconstruct from TV reruns and movies of the 1950s bear little resemblance
to reality, and in films like Pleasantville,
directed by Gary Ross, we begin to see the true colors of this antiseptic view
of the past (Sharett 65). Like any fairytale, the movie begins with “Once upon
a time,” and transports the viewer into this “mythic utopia” we have made of
the fifties (Maio 89).
Saturday, May 4, 2013
"But It Did Happen": Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia
“This
is not just something that happened,” the narrator says in voice over narration
during the prologue to Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia (1999). “This
cannot be ‘one of those things.’ This, please,
cannot be that… this was not just a matter of chance. These strange things
happen all the time.” In P.T. Anderson’s world, strange things do happen all
the time. Human life is seemingly accidental, suspended in a state of organized
chaos, but, try as we might, we have no bearing on that organization. Every
action has a consequence, unfortunately not always an equal and opposite
reaction. In Magnolia, Anderson’s
operatic, multi-stranded meditation on fate, coincidence, life, death, family,
loss, and love, over a dozen characters have their existence interrupted by the
hectic, arbitrary forces of the universe as they embark on a moral odyssey
through their past, present, and future. The writer/director interweaves the
stories of these disparate, desperate people over a twenty-four hour period in
the San Fernando Valley, creating a haunting mosaic of American life through a
series of interposed comic-tragic vignettes, each one a poignant portrait of
human and urban malaise.
***This is an in-depth analysis of Magnolia, and it contains spoilers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)


