Enter the Void (2009)

     In a pulsating phantasmagoria of acid-tripped title cards, Noe introduces his latest feature atop a pulse-pounding electronic heartbeat hyped on amphetamines.  There is no doubt that many, many narcotics are to come.  If the endless neon lights of Tokyo side streets weren’t clue enough the POV DMT hit seals the deal.  This is a drug movie.  One that resists the ethical considerations surrounding their use and instead gets strung out on life, death, and sex.  There are no moral debates to the aforementioned topics, unlike Irreversible; Noe doesn’t delve into ethical implications.  Rather, he inhales the intoxicating fumes of Dimethyltryptamine and trips through death in the labyrinthine Tokyo streets.  The viewer must be willing, or equally intoxicated, to join the ride.
    Our point of view is through the eyes of Oscar, a twentysomething American living in Tokyo.  He is also a heavy drug user, a literal motherf*cker, and a prospective spiritualist.  He takes a few hits of DMT, the same chemical released when one is about to die, and disappears into a psychedelic stream…  From the hands of his friend, Alex, comes The Tibetan Book of the Dead.  It tells of the afterlife.  They discuss this existence, explained by the book, as a cycle where the spirit is absorbed into light sources to higher and higher levels.  The concepts are nominally intangible yet conceptually akin to someone accustomed to different plains of consciousness.  As the pair walks the carnival-like streets to The Void we experience every footstep, every blink, nearly every sensory input Oscar receives.  He enters the neon bar, black lights illuminating the darkness like a synthetic Pandora.  Seconds later he is in the bathroom frantically dumping pills into the ground level Japanese toilet.  He hurriedly scrapes them from amongst the cigarette butts and unclean tile.  A bullet rips through his chest; his fingers fumble in the warm blood.  Oscar dies on the disgusting bathroom floor, the only cinematic locale to rival Trainspotting. 
    The remaining two hours are a beautiful nightmare, one in which he watches over his stripper sister; seeing both conception and abortion of her baby.  He drifts through walls, passing countless, rooms, stairways, and endless partitions.  There is a renowned sense of freedom not even possible during the heaviest trips.  He cycles, passing through glowing orbs in the environment before starting again with the events that carry on after his death.  More walls, more lights, more sounds textures and luminescent voids.  Until finally, as dreamed of before death, he floats through a hotel filled with friends.  He glides above room after room of copulating couples and passionate threesomes; a sexual cornucopia that fuses Eyes Wide Shut and 2001 A Space Odyssey into a relentless foray until he becomes, almost perfectly, the starchild.
    Gasper Noe’s style is very much intact.  The opening title cards, perhaps seizure inducing, introduce the strobing, neon color space in which the entire film exists.  Oscar’s room is illuminated heavily by blinking advertisements from outside, shifting from green to purple to red and yellow.  White, it seems, does not exist.  Nearly every shot is from behind his eyes.  The single exception may be his initial DMT hit that slowly floats above even him; but it is still clearly his point of view.  We are treated to the unreal trip sequences as otherworldly shapes intertwine and morph between colors, sometimes resembling dendrites or caterpillars or mind-tunnels to other dimensions.  Present too, in amplified color swirling accents, is raw, uncensored, pornographic exploits.  Where Irreversible teetered between violence and sex, Enter the Void dissolves the former for heavy doses of the latter.
    The film may be the new ultimate trip, clearly influenced by Kubrickian obsessions.  It, too, runs a little long for the conventional viewer yet is fully motivated by its content.  And more than many filmmakers today, Noe has created an experience, one fraught with visual and audible stimulus and intending an experience beyond the typical drama.  In this case, a psychedelic melodrama.

Kubrick Faked the Moon Landing

I absolutely love conspiracy theories. The notion that one of man’s greatest feats didn’t happen has interested me ever since my first encounter with its proposal; in 8^th grade science class. As the years went on, my interest in film expanded and my introduction to the cinematic lexicon of Stanley Kubrick occurred sometime during high school. Yet it was only within the last year that I became savvy to a connection between the two. And believe me, I would love for it to be true.

Kubrick, if anything, was likely a veritable genius. And, if the metaphor rings true, likely a madman as well. The pictures of the artist towards the end of his life see his face covered with a thick beard, only exaggerating the intensity of his eyes. Something is going on behind them. Thus, of any renowned and talented filmmaker, Kubrick would be the one to help the National Aeronautics and Space Administration achieve the goal of landing on the moon. Or at least convincing everyone they had done so. And while I would love, very much, to believe such a tale, I would also like to think that we did put human beings on a celestial rock other than our own.

Thus, Jay Weidner’s series of passionate and fascinating articles add a degree of plausibility to the idea. I will not re-iterate the articles here because Weidner goes into enough depth without making the articles laborious or massive. The first, How Stanley Kubrick Fake The Apollo Moon Landings discusses both the cinematic techniques that might have been used and the political negotiations Kubrick would have employed to ensure a lasting film career. Next, Secrets of the Shining explores the ways in which Kubrick admits his involvement and perhaps guilt in being involved in what could be the largest conspiracy ever. A few aspects of this article can be seen as far-fetched but remains intriguing nonetheless. Lastly, Weidner discusses his belief that 2001 is the best film ever created in Alchemical Kubrick 2001, a more taxing read yet passionate.

Weidner’s writings, factuality aside, are incredibly thought provoking and help cement the social, political, and personal importance of film and film education. Did one of the foremost filmmakers to have lived and died have his hand in falsifying great technological advancement? And did he later carefully admit it by adapting and tweaking another artist’s story? The fact that Kubrick is dead only adds to the mystery; we can never truly know. All (A11) that we are left with are interpretations and musings about the great filmmaker and his place in the social sphere. I hope to talk about this more as time goes on.

Let the Film Speak

“I would not think of quarreling with your interpretation nor offering any other, as I have found it is always the best policy to allow the film to speak for itself.”

-Stanley Kubrick

The work of Stanley Kubrick is diverse, deep, and highly praised. It is also quite evidently his work; whether it be obsessive use of tracking or the extreme mental states of his characters. The same can be said for the director that has been under much discussion, David Cronenberg. Replace the tracking shots with stationary shots and add lively special effects and gore. However, as has been addressed, Cronenberg is extremely active in the reception and interpretation of his films. This seems like quite and interesting difference than the mindset Kubrick presents in his quote. I am not here to argue the viability of interpreting either of the director’s films in any certain way. Rather, I find it curious and perhaps telling, that these two esteemed directors apparently share such different opinions when it comes to the reception of their films.

We could, of course, attribute the difference simply to personality. Kubrick was notoriously hermitic, carving out his own little movie making kingdom and only occasionally and selectively opening up his mind to others. Cronenberg, on the other hand, is open and willing to discuss the nature and state of his filmmaking practice. Regardless of personal style, each director has succeeded in making some (many) of the most important movies to date.

It makes me wonder, then, what this says about each director and their relationship to their craft. Is Cronenberg too heavy-handed in suggesting a certain reading into his films? Is Kubrick too naïve to allow the masses to see what they want to see? Or does the combination of styles produce the fertile critical and theoretical landscape needed to further our understanding of the world of filmmaking? Of course the diversity of readings is what prompts debate and opens up new avenues of thought. We need conflict in order to progress, to come up with something novel. But, is this better achieved by an artist sitting back and not giving us any guidance or by taking our hand and leading the way? Or more appropriately, perhaps it is not a question of which is better. (It seems a rare case to find a situation when we are not asked to determine which of two options is better)

Perhaps it is a question of intent. Does Kubrick want us to discover for ourselves despite whether they coincide with his thoughts? Does Cronenberg aim his interpretations so that we both find ways to support and negate and thus inherently foster discussion? It is incontrovertible that both of these director’s are intelligent, talented, and conscious of the way their films are received. (And I don’t mean to suggest that Kubrick simply washed his hands of the films he made upon their release) Likewise, both have an acute sense of how film works. This being so, each are capable of producing an intended effect, of getting an idea across.

Yet like any work that consumes its creator, filmmakers are indeed caught up in their stories and how they are telling them. They are also incapable of removing themselves from the process that has created the product. Spectators, on the other hand, have much less invested in the film, be it money, sweat, or reputation. Thus we offer a fresh set of eyes to see the work, whether this is superior or not remains debatable. This then opens up discussion for the reading of art by its creator vs its audience, which we will not get into at this time.

Please Sign Here

Writers’ names, or at least book titles, are often printed on each page. Painters sign their work. Yet after the opening titles and before the closing credits, the director’s name doesn’t appear to mark their work. Film demands the dimension of time, unlike painting, so having a signature appear on the bottom corner of every frame would be distracting and unsightly. Yet as we have established, recognizing a director’s work is not only possible but occasionally very easy. Where, then, does this come from? How can we recognize immediately that so and so made this film? Is it in the stock characters they bring to every story? Is it in the continued use of special effects, witty dialogue, or symmetrical composition? Indeed, it is in all of these. The piece as a whole becomes the author’s signature and allows its viewers to identify it as such.

As stated, I remember my first foray into the world of David Cronenberg. It was marked by moments of combined shock and amazement. Likewise, I remember my first experience with the savage and upfront (in)humanity of Stanley Kubrick in his 1971 film, A Clockwork Orange. It wouldn’t be until years later, in the formal structure of film classes, that I would identify the possibility that their work could carry over film to film. I had certainly seen other entries into each of their oeuvres and recognized the repeated elements; I had simply not put a name with it. Now, being conscious of the relevance of the auteur theory and the practice of observing characteristics of film authorship, I am more curious than ever how exactly we come about labeling the auteur. And how thoroughly their style is stamped into each film.

Is it possible, given a certain film or director, to immediately recognize their presence by watching but a fragment of any part of their film? Or do we require at least a scene, an interaction, to grasp its content? Perhaps obviously, story and thematic elements as well as visual style play a large role. If we want dramatic slow-motion and hard-hitting underworld Englishmen then we will likely turn to Guy Ritchie. But what of the case where we get one over the other? What if a director’s work clearly exhibits his signature visual style in photography and editing but branches off into entirely new thematic areas? Or the reverse, familiar plot elements and values exhibited in an unfamiliar style? Where would such a piece fit into the oeuvre and how immediately do we see the signature?

Considering a filmmaker’s body of work is requisite in discussing their recognizable authorial presence. And sub-standard films can be disregarded. But what of outcasts that don’t suffer in quality? What if a director makes a great film that is far removed from their other great films? On the one hand we could give this as validation of their skill, on the other hand we could condemn it for not being their style. More interestingly, could we identify a director whose films bear no resemblance to any other of their films for this reason? Could a director be more original in every piece to the point that their auteuristic film authorship is characterized by diversity and ingenuity?

I seem to have asked more questions than I have answered, yet artistic credit is of utmost importance. We can agree that both form and content is important in recognizing anyone’s work. And recognizing work and assigning it a place is standard human practice of categorization and organization. And with this comes evaluation, the ranking of particular works I briefly discussed before. Certainly a film that stands out in an artist’s body of work demands attention for its placement and for its displacement. Yet the auteur theory would likely reject such a stray from the norm. It would be forced to abandon the expected signs of authorship and instead observe new ones. Perhaps.

Life and Art

I came across the following quote in the demanding and impressive Kubrick: Inside a Film Artist’s Maze by Thomas Allen Nelson.

Kubrick’s films, in fact, reflect one writer’s belief that reality in the late twentieth century had become “so extravagant in its contradictions, absurdities, violence, speed of change, science-fiction technology, weirdness, and constant unfamiliarity” that the traditional division between imagination and fact seemed neither definable nor relevant.

It’s quite a thought that the need to distinguish between fact and fiction is cast off into irrelevance. Such seems very rarely the case. Viewers often complain the film is unrealistic. That, or the bore of realism got in the way of what should have been an exciting story. To suggest that the nature of reality is so extreme that it passes unfiltered as product of the imagination is both amazing and terrifying. And as is the case with Kubrick films, his envisioned reality is often plagued with jaw-dropping misfortune, proverbial pessimism, and what seem psychic prognostications. So is this writer’s pessimistic observation to suggest that our world is presented as such in our art that we waive their distinctions? And that this world is in such a state of decay that we give in to the violence, weirdness, and absurdity?

Well sign me up! Never more do we have to worry ourselves with the triviality of fact versus fiction. Rest assured, I have simplified matters as were stated in the above quote. I do not mean neglect the gravity that this opinion reflects, however ambiguous it exists between supreme compliment and blatant insult. Should we assume that the quotee thinks our films so advanced and indicative of our culture that we not distinguish their existence as art, or does it state the misfortune of our society is reflected in what should be dramaticized and glamorized? Life imitating art or vice versa?

Weekend Retreat

Amidst filming a short film for class my weekend still saw the inclusion of two classic films. Kubrick’s bold 1964 military satire Dr. Strangelove is the late director’s final black and white film and boasts an intelligence noticeably absent in Tony Scott’s sophomore feature of 1986, Top Gun. The latter is a glamorized and dramatic jet fighter commercial. Kubrick is an incontrovertibly established filmmaker whose oeuvre consistently probed under the surface and in the case of Strangelove seems a bit too relevant with the questions it asks about a species who can easily and unintentionally bring about its own demise. (Let me add here the eleventh hour inclusion of Michael Bay’s almost unwatchable Armageddon, of which a watched half, as another film who toys with the theme of extinction but appropriately skips over the issue in favor of big explosions and bad dialogue.) This is perhaps his scariest film, in which ordering a nuclear strike is much easier than calling it off and the main issues and the decisions that affect the entire world are made by a round table of isolated madmen. Top Gun is only less scary in its romanticized view of midair combat and bravura showmanship with cocky attention seekers behind the controls of $30 million war machines.

While my weekend had not aimed to be saturated far more than necessary in combat it proved an interesting reflection on the duality of war films. On the one hand we have the natural and cinematic inquisition to probe into an unfamiliar and brutal environment. Compare this to the detriments of hand-to-hand, gun-to-gun, or bomb to bomb combat that becomes engaging, exciting, and at times fun. And while some films point out the inherent irony of killing our own species others highlight the fun in challenging another human to the high stakes game of training and skill. The problem is that the two conflict with one another; when something becomes action-packed gunfire, explosions, escapes, and headshots it is immediately fun and engaging. We are promoting our own demise as entertainment: a natural progression to snuff film. Conversely, we could reflect on the dangers of fighting amongst ourselves fueled by greed of possession and intolerance of ideas. The existence of a war-glamorizing film immediately challenges the psychological debate posed by other films whose intent falls more along the lines of, say, questioning the ethics of war when both sides are really the same side.
So does this mean that a carefully delivered and socially conscious Strangelove discredits a flashy Top Gun in terms of cinematic appeal? Hardly. They are both visual and thematic escapist fare that may diverge in terms of depth and content but the fact of the matter is they are both still movies. They are movies with different statements, goals, and quite assuredly different longevity.