the Essential Caesura

Caesura is a literary term, referring, in poetry, to a pause that occurs naturally when a line is spoken. It is used purposefully, using the rhythms of speech to make it fall in a specific place, to create a desired effect, and can be soft (barely noticeable) or hard (as in a full stop, such as a period.) Without these little pauses, the words all run together an become meaningless. When used skillfully, they can not only add to the flow of a piece, but can actually create implied meaning. (For example, when I sing White Christmas, when I get to the line, "everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe," I like to pause after "turkey". That pause give a whole new meaning to the line.)

What I've noticed recently, is that there is some equivalent to the caesura in all art forms.

On Dancing with the Stars, one of the judges is fond of saying that a good dance needs "light and shade," by which he means aggressive or flashy moments should be punctuated by quiet ones in order to have the most impact. A dance that is all "pow" simply isn't as interesting.

In advertising and print design, we talk about "white space." The page needs to have a certain amount of white space in order to look like something meaningful, or it all bleeds together. A page of advertising that's full of exclamation points and neon lettering and bright photos might as well be a black and white list of dense text - when everything is loud nothing stands out. High end advertising often contains a large amount of white space, and may be a single large object on a white or other simple background, with little more than a short slogan and a logo.

Examples:
3G
VW
Coke
Dove

as opposed to something busy like this, where the message gets lost


This one is interesting because it effectively blends the background details so that they appear monochromatic, and then it also echoes for emphasis and to play on the message. This kind of echo, or refrain, is used in music and poetry in a similar manner.


In visual art, we talk about "negative space," which is, simply, the space not used. It applies not only to painting and photography, but to three-dimensional and functional arts such as sculpture, architecture, furniture, and even jewelry.

Negative space is used to create optical illusions, where we focus on one image, and only when we shift our perception do we see another image as well. Perhaps in a similar manner, in a story what seemed like the background, or what seemed like the pauses between action, could suddenly pop to the forefront, while the the other story becomes backgrounded.

Which brings me to screenwriting and film. The caesura is used here as well.

Visually - framing, focus, and light are used to direct the eye. Where the eye is not directed is the negative space. Look at the use of negative space in these filmic images, and the way they dramatize the actor, make them seem bigger than life, or overwhelmed by their environment:
Pirates of the Caribbean
7-Year Itch
Platoon
Sound of Music
Serenity

Without the negative space surrounding them, these moments in the film would feel smaller, less important. The negative space sets them apart, sets the actors apart.

Here's a great image from Lord of the Rings, where the actor becomes part of the negative space, a shade lighter than the background, and the focus is on an object in the foreground.

These things might be implied in a script by describing the big sky behind the character, or the tight box enclosing them. The focus on an object could be highlighted by describing the character matching the background: grey, more than white, as the tower was a grey of a darker shade - and the red eye of the orb glowed before him (OK, that sucks, but you get the idea.)

But film is not static, and negative space can be manipulated to create meaning and moods in movies through movement - whether it's as simple as pulling back to increase the volume of negative space, or pulling in to tighten on an actor. Changing the color, texture, and location. Changing the focus, sharp on one actor or object, then switching focus to another.

What I'm most interested in right now, however, is the use of the caesura in screenwriting. Pauses in the story. Quiet moments. Or, as Mystery Man put it in a recent post, breathing room.

The most straightforward use is perhaps to modulate pacing. A few movies have come out recently that are non-stop go-go-go, and while Crank and others like it are fun, I wonder if they would have been improved by a little breathing space. The pace goes from 0 to 60 very quickly, and to maintain the feeling of speed, needs to keep getting faster. When you're driving at 70mph, it stops feeling fast after just a few minutes. To keep feeling the speed, you need to slow down a bit at regular intervals. It also gives the character a chance to believably rest and have the energy to go hard again.


Another use of slow moments is to build suspense and tension. The calm before the storm (in a natural disaster movie, this might be literal.) It's suspense, rather than surprise. Hitchcock said it best.

There is a clear difference between surprise and suspense […]. We are sitting here and having an innocent conversation. Let us assume that there is a bomb under this table between us. […] suddenly there is a loud boom and the bomb goes off. The audience is surprised, but before this surprise they have only seen a very ordinary scene without any significance. Let us instead look at suspense scene. The bomb is under the table and the audience is aware of this because they have seen the anarchist plant it there. They also know that the bomb will go off at one o’clock, and up on the wall is a clock showing that the time is now quarter to one […]. In the first scene we have given the audience 15 seconds of surprise […] but in the last scene we have given them fifteen minutes of suspense.

Those moments of suspense are when an audience becomes invested in the result, and those moments are the ones they remember. Surprise may get their heart rate up, but nothing's been invested, so without another surprise immediately after the moment passes and is soon forgotten.


Another use of the caesura, or dramatic pause, is to emphasize the importance of a moment. This can be a small one, and need not even be a full scene. A pause can simply underline whatever occurred right before, or let us know that what we see next is something to pay attention to.

If a character simply walks by our protagonist on the street, stops and looks in a window, and moves on, the audience is unlikely to even take note. That's just an extra, a passerby. If, however, the protagonist has just stopped to, say, check at their watch or look at the sky and are essentially doing nothing for a moment before that other person passes them, and as that other person stops and looks in the window, then the audience is likely to take note of them and wonder what their significance is. You can bring this character back, and many audience members will remember them.

It can also underline theme. A moment that is quiet will give the audience time to reflect, and think about what's happened and why. Small moments, with small reactions from the characters, are ones the audience can fill with their own meaning. If these come right after a significant thematic moment, then it will serve to underscore that idea. Say, the character looks at a photo - and then sits back on the couch for a minute, and gets up and starts straightening the room. Whatever was in that photo becomes more important than if they look at it, put it down, and move on. If they look at it, then rush out the door - the photo may be important to the plot, but with the quiet moment, it's likely to speak more to either theme or character.

Which brings me to the final use of quiet moments in a film: character development. Whether they highlight some element of the character's background or history, or show something about their nature, or give them time to process an emotion - this is a challenging way to use the filmic caesura, but may be the most rewarding for the writer. Well, if you like focusing on your characters, that is. Which I'd say most of us screenwriters do.

Examples:

A man goes to a park, and walk around. Maybe he kicks the leaves, or stops at a particular bench, smells the flowers on a particular rosebush. You know he is remembering this place, or one very much like it.

Or - she folds laundry. Every shirt is military-precise. Items are separated, socks are paired, things are hung or put into drawers right away. Then imagine, against this quiet background, she comes across an unmatched sock - a man's sock - and sits down with it, on the bed, sighs, and fights back tears as she strokes the pillow on the opposite side of the bed. This is a much more dramatic and memorable way to tell us her husband is missing (dead? at war? run off?) than if we caught the news through dialogue. If it hadn't been a quiet scene, it would not have been pregnant with implied meaning. Such a small thing as a sock, and touching a pillow, would get lost in a busier, faster scene. The questions about exactly what happened can be answered later, with a close up of an object or a single line of dialogue that wouldn't have had meaning unless the audience was already looking for answers. (When she goes to the post office, someone stops and puts their hand on her arm and says, I'm sorry. She nods and thanks them.)



The caesura is an essential building block of the art of the screenplay, just as any other art, and I'm sure there are many other uses for it.

Three Colors

I recently watched each of the three films in Kieslowski's Three Colors trilogy. I've been meaning to write about them, but haven't been able to focus my thoughts. (I get like that when I'm stressed. Which is why I never get much writing done when I'm unemployed, despite having so much time. Too worried about running out of money.)

At any rate - I'm sitting down to make my attempt.

Usually, before I write about a film, I read up on it and listen to the commentary. I didn't listen to the commentary on these, because I wanted to simply experience them - all three - as a whole. Eventually I'll buy them and listen to all the commentaries, but for now I'm just going on my own impressions. I have read a little about them, did before watching them. I'd originally heard of them through the commentary on Heaven, which was written by Kieslowski as part of another trilogy, but not made until after his death. It was directed by Twyker, and I found it after watching Twyker's The Princess and the Warrior, which was a wonderful portrayal of the differences in the way men and women communicate and relate to others. I watched Heaven, knowing nothing about its history, which was only alluded to briefly in the commentary.

So I looked up the Three Colors, and found that many people believe Blue is among the most finely crafted, perfect films ever made. When approaching movies these days, I try to learn very little about them in advance. I find that I am more likely to enjoy them if I go in without many expectations of what they should be... and sometimes I end up disliking a film that others I respect are saying is brilliant.

Well, in this case I am in accordance with those who think that Three Colors are brilliant.

I am glad I decided to watch all three films within a few days of each other. Though the stories are not a trilogy in the sense of being three parts of the same story with the same characters, no "part II & III" here, they are thematically related, and there is a definite emotional and spiritual progression across all three.

The theme of Red, the third film, is in fact the theme of all three - though it approaches it more directly: the human need for connection.

Each film uses color thematically, though Kieslowski employs it in different ways in each.

In Blue, it represents her grief. Some people have said it represents her moments of peace, but I think that's wrong. It's her most intense moments of feeling, when she immerses herself in the grief. And in some of those moments she finds a kind of peace. The color is tied to the memories and feelings she's trying to cast away. Ultimately, she's unable to disconnect herself, and it's only through accepting her connections, and through immersing herself in memories that she is able to move forward. The completion of her husband's final work, a piece about unification, is the act by which she
a) remembers her husband on a personal level
b) memorializes him in the public sphere
c) channels her emotions into a creative work
d) uses her connection and memory to move forward into the future and establish herself as her own person

Blue is almost meditative. Powerful and intense, the protagonist spends so much time alone that there is very little dialogue, and the music and the images (including Binoche's superbly subtle acting) tell the story.

Grief is difficult to portray. It can become melodrama so easily. This film, however, perfectly captured something quite close to my own experience of it. Even for those who do not go to such extremes to leave their old life behind, you do feel very much alone. You feel like your grief separates you from the world, from everyone around you (ironic, since it's a universal experience - the loss of loved ones.)

I must confess - as much as I was appreciative of the film and recognize its genius (a word I don't use casually), as much as I love the poetry of its images and deftness of the acting... I did not love Blue. I found it too difficult to watch, too unnerving, too uncomfortable. All of which simply underscore the brilliance, but it was simply too close to home for me.

One of the three screenplays I'm working on now centers around a young widow who is afraid of being touched and who must decide whether to memorialize her husband's legacy as an artist, or to let it go and move on with her life. And it does so, because that is my own story. My own process. And it's one which still continues and is still quite sharp and painful (even after ten years.) So, no - I was not able to really enjoy Blue as much as it deserved.


White uses the thematic color to represent an man's idealized vision of his wife. She is blonde and pale, and he has a bust which reminds him of her white skin. He remembers, over and over, her in her wedding dress. It's a little harder to spot the use of color in white. It doesn't saturate the way that Blue and Red do, but it's still a frequent presence.

Of the three, White has the most external story. It's funny - and makes light of dark subjects. The protagonist spends the film trying to get back home, make himself a "better" man, and re-capture the love of his cruel but beautiful wife. If this were an American film, we'd spend the movie psychoanalyzing why he would want to win back such a bitch, but Kieslowski never bothers to ask - because the answer is obvious. What man doesn't want the love of a beautiful woman? To impress her with his success and make her belong to him?

Her cruelty and capriciousness is no different from the cruelty of the world itself. She is a force of nature, an ideal which he strives for. She doesn't ever become quite real, and this is exactly how she is meant to be.

Whereas the protagonist in Blue goes to great lengths to run away from her connection with others, the protagonist in White goes to great (even absurd) lengths to assert his connection to one specific other...but his path to her ends up creating and strengthening his connections to the rest of the people in his life.


In Red, there's no mistaking the presence of the color. It's there in almost every shot, sometimes a spot of color, an accent, and often in great washes of red that take up most of the screen.

I found myself puzzling over the specific thematic correlation. In the other films, the titular color was used in very specific ways, to represent the emotion at the core of the story. In Red, it's so pervasive, I wasn't able to find any common thread. But by the end of the movie, I realized that was precisely the point.

Red is about connections. Chance, or purposeful. The ways that we brush up against one another, and suddenly find ourselves looking into another person's eyes and really seeing them, listening to another person's words and really hearing them. It's almost a shock when it happens, and yet it has a pleasant warmth - much like the color red.

Of the three, though I can recognize Blue as more finely crafted, I personally enjoyed Red the most. It is a story driven by chance. The characters seem buffeted about by fate or some other mysterious force. They do not make their most meaningful connections by choice... but it is by their choices that they are taken to them, and by choice that they recognize and nurture them.

All three films employ chance in a way that could easily ruin a story in lesser hands. Coincidence is tricky. It usually feels too convenient, too pat. It feels forced. Three Colors, however, are a study of what happens to people in the face of the random (or is it) whims of fate. It is through random chance that we find our most meaningful moments. The protagonist in Red seems to embrace this fully, and in the end is led to the possibility of love.

I could go on more about the symbolism in this last film... the seven puppies, the seven stones, the seven survivors. Several specific instances of chance, the similarity to Amelie... but I just noticed it's 3:55am. I really ought to go to bed.

Perhaps I'll further amend this in the future, but not likely.

One more word, though... I found Red to be one of the most romantic movies I've ever seen, and I'm such a sucker for that.

Storytelling Objects: Props as Story Devices in Dead Again

I watched Dead Again for the umpteenth time. It's one of my favorite movies, but it's been a while since I'd seen it - and I've never listened to the writer's commentary on the film.

There were two aspects of the screenplay that he discussed which really interested me: the use of objects as storytelling devices
the modulation of tone in scenes

The plot of this story is complex. If you haven't seen it, you won't be able to follow my discussion... so go watch it already. It's great fun.

I think that the first subject is interesting, because as a writer, I find it easy to get too much in my head - and the real 3-D world of plastic, material objects can be overlooked. In Dead Again, objects are used as clues, as character development, to imply relationships between the present and the past, and to reveal plot points.

Minor objects include the gloves and furniture... The gloves. Grace has only one glove when Mike meets her. It's a clue - both about her, and it ends up being a clue about who is behind her attempted abduction. (Who could know she was missing a glove?)

Furniture - specifically chairs. Grace blocks her door at night with a chair. Mike collects furniture that could have been in Roman's home, and comments specifically on a chair (which she then uses to block her door.) When the adult Frankie comes into his home, he comments on one of the chairs, also subtly revealing his connection to that period. Couches - the first time Roman and Margaret have sex, they are wet on a couch, and the sex scene with Mike and Grace mirrors this.

The most important are the scissors, and the anklet.

The story revolves around a murder that was done with a pair or scissors. "Grace" (aka Amanda) dreams about them. We see several around Mike's house. In one scene, he uses them to cut up bacon while he's cooking.

They've been shown and we've built up fear around them - so the scene in which he tries clumsily to assure Grace that he's not dangerous works well. He storms around the house, pulling her along, picking up each pair of scissors and giving them to her, forcing them into her hand. This is also a nice way of showing that it was not he, but she, who held the scissors which were the murder weapon in the past.

When we finally take Grace/Amanda back to her house, we see that she's been obsessed with scissors for a while. Suddenly the three or four pair that Mike had don't look nearly so ominous as compared to the dozens of paintings and sculptures she has.

Then there are the actual scissors which were used in the murder. We see them in the memories, used to cur hair, sitting on a dresser... as well as in Grace's nightmares - where they threaten her, and finally in the scene of the actual murder. When the antiques collector pulls them out, and shows that he owns them now, we already know that it was he who used them to kill Margaret. The other scissors have all just been echoes of this pair, and none carry the threat that these do.


The anklet: This object has a myth attached to it. It becomes a symbol of their love, of their romance. When Frankie considers stealing it, it is a threat to the couple and not simply the theft of an object. When she wears it in to the party, and Gray Baker admires it - he is, unconsciously perhaps, not admiring her only, but admiring them as a couple. It connects Roman and Margaret for all time, two halves of one whole, so that they return to one another in their new life. When Frankie kills her, and takes the anklet, he pulls it - snapping the clasp, as though breaking the bond.

When Frankie's mother pulls it out to give it to Mike, it is as though she's been the guardian of the love for all these years. She was always the protector - of Frankie, but also of Roman... and despite his love for another woman, she preserved the symbol of his happiness. She returned it to Mike, and the return of the anklet precipitates the resolution, and thus ends the artificial separation between the lovers.

But before that can occur, of course, justice must be done and the murderer is done in by his own weapon - the original scissors are buried in his back.

Thus the two central symbols of the film are opposites - the scissors which divide, and the anklet which unites.

the Long Shot

Several examples of the long shot used well:
http://dailyfilmdose.blogspot.com/2007/05/long-take.html


I'll add to this list Dead Again. There are a few long shots in it, notably one which was filmed as a single long shot but got edited down - the first hypnotism scene in the antiques shop. It was actually a dolly shot, because they wanted smoother movement than a steadicam could provide, as it circled slowly around the room. The challenge was to make the room big enough for the camera and the track, but still make the space feel small and close.

There are other long shots as well... I may have to watch it again to note some of them. Been thinking about writing on the use of objects as narrative in film, and Dead Again has some wonderful examples of that.

Personal Context and Movies

There are plenty of legitimate reasons to dislike the movie Birth.

The main one is the creepy burgeoning relationship between Nicole Kidman's character and a 10 year old boy. No, it never crosses the line, but they do discuss sex, and behave in other completely inappropriate ways.

The other is the fact that the characters all seem socially retarded. As though none of them has ever been around a child, and they have no idea how to react to one. As though they have never been presented with a preposterous story and had to engage their minds to question it in more than the most shallow way.

Some folks found the pacing too slow, but that didn't bother me. I thought that the pace was as elegant as the cinematography and music - which was stunning. I re-watched the opening scene twice after the film was over.

The acting was powerful, though there were times when the dialogue seemed to be trying too hard to sound like Mamet and came off as choppy and tongue-tied. Unsure if that was a problem with the script or the actors.

Some folks were bothered by what they perceived as loose ends, but I didn't care that the ending is not neat.

In fact, there was much about the film that I enjoyed... but on the whole, my gut instinct is deep, visceral hatred. Yes, I hated this movie. I avoided watching it for a long time, because I knew I would hate it - but then I read something about it which intrigued me. (A review which said it was neither a con artist story nor a reincarnation movie.)

I should have simple passed on it.

You see, I am a widow. About the same length of time as Nicole Kidman's character, Anna - ten years. Like Anna, it took me several years to even begin dating again. My own grief was complicated by the fact that my husband as also a complete bastard (and that's being nice about it)... but I can relate strongly to the character.

I knew how much this child showing up just as she was ready to marry another man would destroy her. I knew how hard it would be. In fact, I saw it as a metaphor for the feelings that would come up in her as she prepared to marry - that the husband she thought she had finally let go of would come back and "haunt" her and she would behave in a foolish manner and even think of running away.

But what pissed me off was having her interact with this child as though he were an adult. It's one thing to believe that the kid is her husband. I can imagine being faced with this. I cannot imagine, from that point, discussing sex with this child. Allowing this child to take off his clothes and bathe with me. Allowing a kiss that has the tenderness of a lover. It simply would not happen. I would want to keep the child in my life, yes - but I would not consider making this kid my partner.

Crossing that line makes her entirely unsympathetic. Not only because of the pedophilic implications - but because it makes her weak. In fact, she doesn't grow or change. At the end of the film, she's still hung up on him, and has not been able to move on. She's crippled by her grief. I want to slap her and tell her she's not the only widow in the world. I want to medicate her. I want her to grow the fuck up and stop being a selfish, whiny little nit.


This reaction interested me, because I think it's the first time I've disliked a film because of my personal relationship to it. I've loved movies irrationally before.

I love The Long Kiss Goodnight, because it strikes a chord with me. I spent most of my life as an adventurer, traveling and pursuing goals that most people never consider. I may not have been an assassin (was never that cool!) but I definitely lived in a way that was antithetical to the PTA-mom universe. And part of me longed for that world. Part of me wanted to just put my past aside, pretend it didn't happen, have a kid and bake cookies. I make great cookies. And she's eventually able to integrate this other side, and live happily as uber-mom... Well, I do admit that the fact that I had taken a few magic mushrooms before watching it the first time may have enhanced my sense of the films profundity. (What? I was in Prague. It was legal.)

Another film I have an irrationally soft spot for is The Fifth Element. This was a decent movie. I recognize that it's not fantastic. That it's a fun ride and entertaining - and for most people not much more... but the circumstances under which I watched it the first time mean that it effected me profoundly. No, I wasn't tripping - I was grieving.

My husband and I were staying at a friend's place in the country, and I had to go into the city to work. I slept in the office at the bar where I was the head chef, because the commute was too long... I was scheduled for three days of double shifts over the weekend, and then he was going to come into Prague and we would go watch the movie together Sunday night.

Instead, our friend came to see me at work on Saturday to tell me he'd died.

Dazed, I went to see the movie a few days later. Sitting in the back of the balcony, in a mostly empty theater, I knew my husband would have thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I was moved deeply by the message that the fifth element is love. I cried a lot. And the movie still affects me more than it reasonably should.



But that's part of the wonder of art. As a poet, I long ago stopped worrying about whether people understood what I was trying to say - and became more interested in whether they came away from a poem touched or moved in some way. The poems became less about expression and more about connection. A movie becomes a collaboration with the audience. They receive it according to their interests, knowledge, abilities, circumstances - and transform it into a personal experience that makes it unique to them.

On the Edge of Blade Runner

I have mixed feelings about the news that Ridley Scott is re-shooting scenes for Blade Runner. Tinkering with something so long after the fact, well, it seems like it would be hard to retain the original vision - much less match scenes to the older movie.

But I'm also intrigued. Blade Runner is easily one of my favorite films of all time. In fact, I've watched it more times than any other single movie. (Though Buckaroo Banzai comes close.)



There is a good British documentary about Blade Runner, called On the Edge of Blade Runner. It runs about an hour total. Enjoy.

Horror with a Light Touch - Cat People 1942

I just finished watching the original Cat People, made in 1942 by Val Lewton. I didn't know anything about it, or about Mr. Lewton beforehand, only that I love the 1982 version for it's eroticism, intriguiging story, and the reluctant (and oh-so-sexy) monster that is the protagonist.

I was expecting something campy, full of melodrama and bad makeup but with a good story at the core. I've seen plenty of early horror films, and I didn't know that Cat People was different.

Cat People used classic noir cinematography to give a basic love story plot with conflicted and interesting characters a dark edge. Much of it could have gone over wrong and ended up being comical and amusing, but the scenes were just restrained enough to remain compelling.

It's a seductive film. It draws you in with a simple story, elegantly told, and plays with you - like the kittenish lead actress.

One of the things in it's favor, of course, is that lovely old black and white film stock. The "silver screen" that simply feels like you've walked into another world.

The cinematography is careful: lighting, contrast, framing, positioning of the actors, the architecture of the sets. There is a marvelous moment when the "other woman," Alice, is working late in the drafting office. Two large square tables are lit, but the overhead lights are off. The only other light comes from the street, through the window across the room, centered in the picture. Light streams upward, emphasizing the vertical elements in the room, and the line of the ceiling. The effect is to create boxes within boxes. Alice sits at the closest table, in the lower right corner.

The cat woman, beginning to be suspicious and jealous, calls the office. Alice stands up, turning off the light on the table as she does, and walks around it as the phone rings. She walks around the second table, and crosses the window to reach the phone. This makes her appear to move into those boxes, framed tighter and tighter, trapped - but not yet aware of it.

And then there's the pool scene - much like the one in the re-make. Alice sees a shadow on the steps - very briefly. Blink and you'd miss it. She dives into the pool. A tiny box of a room barely bigger than the pool, the light reflecting on the walls, echoing like the voice of the woman in the pool echoes when she screams... an eerie confusion which might make her doubt the shadow she saw moments before.

Items on the sets help reinforce the story. As Irena (the cat woman) tells the story of the evil cat people of her village in Serbia, a large painting looms over her, the corner just visible over her shoulder - featuring, of course, cats - their glowing eyes watchful. A beautiful art deco screen with a panther dominates the room. In one scene, as Irena stalks Alice and her husband - she passes the window of a florist's, which is filled with a display of tiger lilies.

Costuming is no less intentional - and sometimes witty. Irena has a black fur coat which she wears more and more often as the story progresses. It shimmers much like the panther's coat in the zoo. In the final scene, before her death, she has it draped over one shoulder - emphasizing her dual nature.

The costuming element I most enjoyed was Alice's hats. Irena has a pet bird, given to her by her husband. She accidentally frightens it to death, and then takes it to the zoo and feeds it to the panther. When she returns to the apartment, Alice is there - wearing a hat with a great feather. It's later that evening, in the same hat, that Irena stalks her for the first time. On that night, Irena kills some sheep. The next time Irena follows Alice, Alice has a pillbox had made from lambswool (the curly texture of the fur is distinctive.) Then, in the final stalking and confrontation scene, Alice has on another feathered hat.

All of this attention to detail is impressive, considering the film had a limited budget and was shot in 18 days. Val Lewton had been put in charge of RKO's new horror division, and was expected to crank out B-grade commercial schlock that would bring in cash to make up for that disaster from the previous year - Citizen Kane. The studio was angry when they saw the film, fearing it was too subtle and intelligent and would be a flop - but it was a huge success, with audiences sometimes so frightened that there was near-hysteria.

Now I'm going to have to watch some more Val Lewton films. Good thing the Curse of the Cat People is also on the same DVD.

2001 - Thoughts

Originally posted here

Mystery Man recently posted a video and link to an article about 2001, and I decided my response there merited repeating in my own blog.

My discussion of films tends not be be analytical so much as experiential, and this is no exception.


I remember the first time I watched 2001 so clearly.

I was about 14, it was at a slumber party. The other girls were all out at the pool, going into the daylight after telling scary stories in the dark of a walk-in closet.

The parents put it on (and, in retrospect, I suspect had just dropped acid.) I stood behind the couch and watched the opening - silent and yet so *big* and *important*... I asked what it was, and if I could watch. They told me I wouldn't enjoy it, it was for grown-ups. Well, I wasn't the kind of kid who ever appreciated being left out because of my age - so I sat down on the floor and watched.

I was baffled and completely entranced - and knew I'd have to watch it again in a few years... and yet, despite not quite getting everything, I had grasped the essence of it. It speaks in such grand gestures and on a mythical level that a grasp of the narrative details is not needed, and the willingness to accept not understanding is part of the experience of the film (while at the same time, letting the presence of that enigma drive one, the great mysteries that spark creativity.)

And yet... I can't even imagine a film like this being made today. The pacing, and most especially the abstract ending would be difficult for any director to push through.