Cinema in Quarantine: Rear Window

Submitted to a nation of stir-crazy people confined to their homes I give you Rear Window, a story of a stir-crazy man, also confined to his home. This guy is crabby, he’s bored, and he’s sick of being in his apartment until one of his neighbors inadvertently provides him with something to do--solve a murder! Is this a simply a straight-forward suspense story? A cautionary tale of men versus women, the old school versus modernity? Nearly anything goes in terms of defining what it all means, but if anything positive is to come from our own sheltering at home it should be for all of us stir-crazies to unite in our love of film (and voyeurism). Let’s dig in.

Alfred Hitchcock’s films are a dream to review and discuss because like many auteur directors whose work carries a collection of recognizable properties (almost like a personal seal or thumbprint), Hitchcock puts a ton of interesting elements into every film he does. For example, the slowness of the moving camera commonly conveys suspense, the classic composition of shots can portray power or vulnerability, and all the little items that inhabit the setting (in this case, camera lenses, cigarettes, jewelry, and saws) together with the way these items are used go a long way in showing, not telling, some of the important things we need to know about the characters. L.B. Jefferies (James Stewart) is a photographer confined to his apartment having been severely injured at a photo shoot. His days are scattered with visits from the insurance-appointed nurse, Stella (Thelma Ritter) and his love interest, Lisa (Grace Kelly), but Jefferies seems to be preoccupied with the goings-on of the apartment dwellers across the courtyard, fully on display through open windows.

Notable tenants include Ms. Torso, a young, pliable ballerina, Ms. Lonely-Heart, a heavy drinker who imagines interactions with beaus, a party-throwing songwriter and pianist, and the Thorwalds, a man who lives with his wife, also confined to her room. Jefferies becomes suspicious when Mrs. Thorwald suddenly disappears, and after noticing several occasions of strange behavior from Mr. Thorwald, Jefferies decides the man must have murdered his wife.

Technically speaking, this film is easily an aesthetic masterpiece. A soundstage this massive (three separate apartment dwellings, courtyard, background street, and distant restaurant) is impressive on its own, but the filmmaking techniques, color, and music are all pleasantly memorable. The camera, which serves largely to stretch out scenes or reveal things slowly, is quick and sudden when it needs to be, usually in moments of fear, danger, or measuring Jeffries’ reactions to fear and danger. Lighting has a huge effect on the story: whose windows are illuminated, how shadows protect or hide Jefferies as he spies, or where Thorwald is and whether or not he’s watching as betrayed by the glow of his cigarette. Color explodes in the summer environment through the flower bed, the choices in paint inside the apartments, and the outfits of the female characters. The musical choices and sound design amplify the interconnectedness of the neighbors through an ongoing accompaniment of piano (courtesy of the musician), vocal scales, folk fiddle, and whistling while also giving way at crucial moments to more sinister elements such as breaking glass, a thunderstorm, and a woman’s scream.

So how does it all come together and what’s being said under the surface events of the story? Questions of impotence and inferiority have been raised (why does Jefferies keep rejecting Lisa, physically?) as well as the play between more traditionally-valued Stella and Detective Doyle who have a stated aversion to psychology versus Jefferies and Lisa, who take a more modern approach to thinking things out and analyzing their feelings. Jefferies speaks at length on what he considers to be barriers to a future marriage with Lisa that really only amount to differences in class and personal interests, but seems to put all his concerns to rest once Lisa begins to take his side in questioning Mrs. Thorwald’s disappearance.

The issue of voyeurism is not exactly subtle in this story; in a precursor to Ira Levin’s Silver as well as reality television proper Rear Window is about a man peeping in on others’ lives. How do we feel about this, and how does it translate to the things we watch today? At a bit of a reach yet still worth mentioning-- Jefferies' perception and treatment of Lisa changes pretty significantly once she leaves his apartment and becomes a player in the events across the courtyard.

After she becomes someone to be watched.

In school, one of my professors from the West Bank (photography and art history department) preferred to keep discussions on film contained to the narrative and technical arenas, whereas several others on the East Bank (comparative literature and film theory) lived for the discussions of the underlying themes and what it all meant in the scheme of the universe. This film was a top pick for both camps, but for decidedly different reasons. What are your thoughts? What bank are you on, and why?

Cinema in Quarantine: Wild at Heart

Last week I got together with writer and filmmaker Cameron Cloutier (@bodian26) to watch and discuss David Lynch's Wild at Heart in a live stream video. Cameron is the director of Queen of Hearts, an intriguing Twin Peaks-inspired film that explores characters Caroline Earle and Annie Blackburn, and through all this we discovered that we both really favor Lynch's late 80s/early 90s period that includes Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks, and Wild at Heart.

My own personal experience of seeing this film for the first time was kind of interesting, at 15 I had to shut it off about halfway, but about a year later I muscled my way through the Big Tuna scenes and ended up really enjoying it. Unfortunately I was not able to see this in a theater, which would have been an entirely different, very visceral event (which Cameron describes). For anyone trying this for the first time, just know it's very violent, very sexual, and filled with jarring, intense moments that you just have to be able to go with. If you can make it through the conclusion of the Johnny Farragut situation about midway through the film, you'll probably be fine to the end. IMDB's official description uses the phrase "variety of weirdos" to summarize the film and the people in it, and while it's true, these people are weird and violence is at the root of the story, the film is a lot more than just that. For more on plot summary or character details you can read this review, also pretty informal, that I did ten years ago on this blog.

Sometimes when you watch a film you've seen multiple times, the experience can feel a little like you're just going through the motions or just serves as a setting where you can recite all the lines and feel comforted by the familiarity. Relaxing. Validating. This never really happens to me during Lynch films or Twin Peaks for two reasons.

1. Everything on the screen is so rich with detail---dialogs, composition, music, effects---there's almost always something each time I view that I notice for the first time. For instance, this time Cameron brought my attention to the music during the film's opening: its interesting shift from Badalementi's score to "In the Mood," to the aggressive guitars of Powermad during the first murder. Very disorienting but very fitting for introducing Sailor and Lula (while Marietta lurks in the background). Also Marietta's cute little pink bathroom with floral wallpaper. The furniture in the hotel lobby in New Orleans. And a random longhorn (we decided it may have been a light or decal with a florescent bulb along the underside) leaned up against one side of the bed at the motel in Big Tuna that was only there for one scene at night and then disappeared (!) Always something to see, hear, or think about.

2. The uncanny, somewhat incongruent elements (usually in the form of characters, but sometimes entire scenes or musical numbers) that pop up Lynch's work and speak to his brilliance and individuality as an auteur. I'm always on high alert when waiting for these situations, things like Marietta's mishandling of the lipstick, the woman sidestepping across the stage with her fingers flickering up by her cheeks at one of the New Orleans musical venues, the story of Jingle Dell, or the old men loitering around the hotel lobby where Johnny is supposed to meet Marietta (but has gone "buffalo hunting").

I've already said too much, but it was a fun couple hours reminiscing and hearing another fan's experience of it, too. Take a look, if you want to see/hear more, or better yet, turn on the film and watch along with us. Let me know in the comments what you think!

Cinema in Quarantine: Dr. Strangelove

Director Stanley Kubrick lets us know immediately the type of film experience we’re getting into with his 1964 satirical comedy, Dr. Strangelove. First, a text crawler at the behest of the US Air Force explaining how the events depicted in the film couldn’t really happen, and second, an extended collection of scenes of an airplane refueling another midair with a decidedly sexual theme. The effect of this introduction is clear: we are about to see a crude, outlandish mockery of governmental situations.

The mockery goes on to take several forms throughout the film, playing often upon character names, generalities of hawks, doves, Russians, and Germans (among many others), and a stubborn obsession over bodily fluids. That said, Dr. Strangelove will not be every person’s kind of comedy. The Cold War was a very serious situation; not everyone will see the humor in making it ridiculous. Communism and Nazism aren’t light-hearted topics, nor are mutinies, hydrogen bombs, loss of life, or suicide. Kubrick is able to sidestep the seriousness of these issues by focusing not on the issues themselves but rather the poor decisions that led to them. The theme here isn’t necessarily about the evil men do, it’s about the stupid, the confusing, and the outlandish, and we can feel fine laughing about these things.

The narrative, driven by ongoing tension between American and Russia over nuclear weapons superiority (and any ‘gaps’ between the two nations’ perceived might over the other), is fairly straight-forward. An Air Force general goes rogue, sets in motion a nuclear attack on Russia, and the president’s cabinet bumble about trying to thwart the attack while maintaining diplomacy with the Russians. The character Strangelove (one of Peter Sellers’ three roles in the film) is minor but memorable as an advisor to American president, Merkin Muffley (also Sellers). Suggesting previous Nazi association, Strangelove’s behavior involving a maniacal right arm and constant verbal lapses into “Mein Fuhrer” provides not only comedy but tongue-in-cheek stylistic homage to German Expressionist cinema.

The Air Force Base, which sets the story in motion, is initially a very confused environment. General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) suddenly ordering a nuclear strike and blathering on about fluids; is this guy for real? Yes, he is, and no, he won’t recall the code he’s just authorized, so a retaliatory attack on his base commences. Here we see the newsreel look of active battle juxtaposed with extended scenes of the Royal Air Force executive officer Lionel Mandrake’s (also Sellers) uncomfortable reactions against the paranoia of General Ripper and later, a comically dim set of interactions with a Colonel “Bat” Guano, a phone booth, and a coke machine.
Arguably the most stylized setting in the film, the War Room is composed of a giant oval table which seats the president’s cabinet and dignitaries and over which hangs an enormous board map of Russia, complete with lights and other strategic features. Size is definitely key, and the board is often acknowledged as a powerful tool that should be kept secret at all costs. The comedic performances of the war room are dynamic and constant, fluctuating back and forth between the monotone President Muffley and General Buck Turgedson (George C. Scott). 

"He'll see the big map!"

Hawkish Turgedson’s character exists to egg on the entire attack, and comes off as both logically stoic
and giddy at the prospect of dropping a warhead on a Russian target, but Scott’s portrayal of the general-- tone of voice, facial expressions, and gestures-- steals virtually every scene until Strangelove arrives. It’s been noted that George C. Scott was not pleased with the performances of his that Kubrick chose to use in the film, but it’s no understatement to say that nonetheless, Scott as Turgedson is a huge part of the film’s success.

The B52 plane piloted by Major “King” Kong (Slim Pickens) is the most light-hearted of the settings, and relies on music (When Johnny Comes Marching Home), close shots of the technical aspects of the aircraft and its gear, and Pickens’ gentle western drawl to color the experience of  something serious that becomes funny. Bombs are not funny; dropping a bomb on a country is not funny, but Kong and his crew make it so. The film’s famous conclusion takes this concept a step further by returning sexual innuendo to the final act as Kong rides a warhead out of the plane and onto Russian soil. We are somehow left feeling satisfied with such a resolution simply because the bomb and the entirety of international diplomacy have been treated as jokes, mishandled by a crew of incompetents.

Should politicians and generals be mocked if they’re shown to be incompetent? Kubrick thought so. The book Red Alert upon which the film is based does not take a comic approach to any of the events depicted in the story, but posited two serious thoughts that Kubrick chose to include: “You say, ‘War is too important to be left to the generals?’ Well I say war is too important to be left to the politicians!” Despite such bravado, neither make a very convincing argument in the film, which is clearly what Kubrick set out to show us in the first place. How might Stanley see things today? I’m not sure I want to know . . . 

Cinema in Quarantine: The Shawshank Redemption

In the two decades I’ve been writing about film, The Shawshank Redemption has come up frequently. Nominated for countless industry awards for acting, writing, cinematography, and sound, this film hasn’t just entertained audiences for the last twenty-five years but has served as a sort of gold standard to what cinematic storytelling can accomplish. Back in school, my professors always emphasized a criticism style that took into account a film’s narrative, technical, and thematic aspects, so my reviews always followed that format (often with a stubborn obsession on theme). It’s a rare joy to be able to write about a film that succeeds in all three areas the way this one so skillfully does. Well-written, expertly crafted, and still relevant to the human experience, this throwback is exactly what we all need in these uncertain times. It reminds us that hope is possible.

Based on Stephen King’s short story (Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption), the film follows former banker and convicted murderer Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins) as he serves two life sentences in a New England state prison. Andy is initially a very distant protagonist who navigates the dangers of prison life in a practically removed fashion, but fellow inmate Ellis Redding (Morgan Freeman), or “Red,” as he’s known, befriends Andy, an unlikely relationship develops, and on it’s taken. The redemption piece emerges pretty clearly throughout the film and definitely at the film’s famous conclusion (which is among the most infamous and visceral-reaction-provoking in film history), but it’s important to not forget the little redemptions that take place throughout the story, too: music, books, baseball, and in a nice moment of self-reflexivity, the film-within-the-film Gilda (starring, you guessed it, Rita Hayworth, complete with the hair-toss moment and everything).

The little things that Shawshank’s prisoners took for granted on the outside become the very things that allow them to maintain their humanity on the inside. Screenwriter/director Frank Darabont added several such supplementary items not originally included in King’s original story but none as powerful as the prisoners’ responses to a Mozart opera when Andy illicitly broadcasts it on a record player over the prison yard. These moments do more than just keep the viewers from drowning in the appalling world of hazing (“Fresh Fish!”), assault (head guardsman Byron Hadley or even more distressing, The Sisters), maggoty meat, and corruption. Andy is showing his fellows (and us) that in a terrible situation, there are still things that matter, things that humans can share and enjoy, things that allow humans to hold onto hope.

Hope also shines through many of the technical aspects of the story. Fans of cinematographer Roger Deakins’ work will recognize his always “right-for-the-movie” composition, camera work, and emotional ties to the film’s subject matter in nearly every shot. Slow pans of the unflinching jurors in Andy’s trial give way to the same motion across prison bars. Eagle eye views and slow, moving camera approaches of the environment of the prison and beyond show the characters as masters of these spaces, slaves to them, or eventually, becoming redeemed by them. Music shifts in and out in varying forms: a staticky victrola, folk fiddle and guitar, Hank Williams, and rockabilly together with the aforementioned Mozart provide not only accompaniments but extension and depth to the actions of the characters and their responses to those actions.

How is hope achieved thematically, and why do we need this in our lives? Prison films are not always high on everyone’s must-see list, after all. For better or worse, friendship is shown to be an insulating factor for the prisoners and a band-of-brothers camaraderie develops and intensifies throughout the film, showing us positive belonging and loyalty. Rather than waiting out his time, sullen and alone in his cell, Andy creates a library and becomes a sort of mentor, teaching other inmates to read, and offering insight into music and literature. Insane optimism? Maybe, but the bigger message could simply be “find the good and share it with others,” (if you can).

The good versus evil aspect of this film (largely avoided in this review so as to be spoiler-free) factors into every action within the prison of course, and early on, one gets the feeling that Andy Dufresne, in his day-to-day activities and later his complacency within the corrupt prison system, is fighting an unwinnable fight against a giant (or in this case, a pious warden). We are not in Andy Dufresne’s situation, but many of us have been in touch with hopelessness, have tried to achieve something impossible, or have longed for resolution that just didn’t happen quickly enough. The fact that we crave Andy’s success and root for him (and Red) throughout the film drives the experience--we all have hope, that greatest of all things, inside us, we just want to see it realized. The first step is where we are now, the second is whatever we decide to get busy doing.

On Humanity and the Ideology of Baby Yoda

"It's so vulnerable! We have to protect it!"

"I love how it's learning as it goes along."
"I would die for it."

These are a few of the comments about Baby Yoda that have been made by fully grown adults popping up on my socials the last few weeks together with stickers of its face, handmade crocheted and knitted toys, and a few hundred memes. People are excited over the green humanoid creature that's been stealing every scene of the new hit show, The Mandalorian---it's small and cute, it controls The Force, and it's a character within an otherwise well-written, beautifully aesthetic collection of television episodes.

Why such a strong response? It's small and vulnerable, yes, its eyes are large and inviting almost like those of a quiet puppy or tiny infant. Young creatures are designed to look this way to ensure survival, the more adorable the creature, the stronger the reaction is to protect it, right? Mothers in nature don't necessarily need this kind of encouragement, we tend to instinctively nurture our own vulnerable offspring as well as anyone else's who may need it. We see a need (someone's sick, someone's hurt, someone needs support), we respond to it. In this narrative, a cute, vulnerable creature is in danger and the viewers, like the Mandalorian bounty hunter, feel an overwhelming need to respond (he uses his cleverness and combat skills, we become dedicated watchers and theory-makers). We don't know yet how it will end, but we're invested, no question, because we need to know Baby Yoda will be okay.

What does ideology have to do with it? A lot. This story begins, as many adventures do, with a tough guy. Before we even meet Baby Yoda we are introduced to its protector, Dyn Jarren (or Mando, as he is commonly known), in a John Ford western-inspired tavern doorway. Mando embodies a very masculine bounty hunter---he's a skilled fighter, he's cunning, he keeps his conversations short and direct---the quintessential "Man With No Name," in a galaxy far, far away. Through flashbacks we learn that Mando was orphaned as a child, which plays directly into the role he eventually takes when he discovers Baby Yoda, his intended bounty, and eschews his professional duties to become its protector.

To recap: A tough guy defied his orders, risking personal injury and loss of income to keep a young creature safe. A tough guy drew the line and did the right thing. A tough guy showed compassion.

Look at how the canonical helmet and armor of Mandalorian bounty hunters play into the ideas of traditional, masculine attributes. Mando's armor, a physical, beskar iron barrier between him and the world, ensures his protection from gunfire and potential lightsaber assaults but also serves to keep him mentally isolated as well. No facial expressions are known, and the tone of his voice betrays little. We see his human face in his own memories of his parents, but never as an adult. Will we? Might he eventually show his face to the young creature who sought out physical contact when it was first discovered?

The ideas here are big ones---should men have to hide their experiences, their feelings behind metal? Can nurturing be part of being masculine? Can we change how we think about all this? Worth mentioning also is the fact that the helmet does allow for virtually anyone to be behind it, and the fact that Baby Yoda itself is not any identifiable human culture or ethnicity. These characters are unique and specific but are also widely inclusive. The right and wrong being posited by Mando's actions and decisions can apply to anyone, anywhere. What if Baby Yoda is bigger than just a baby creature? What if the idea of protection and devotion to the vulnerable had to be shown to us in such a way where a person in armor decided to preserve that idea because the importance of this kind of thinking has been lost?

I think Baby Yoda is humanity and we are all Mando. Will we do the right thing? Every day we have this kind of power. We can act with compassion and kindness, nurture and help each other, or we can follow what's been laid down by people who want to divide us and keep us retreating behind suits of armor they've convinced us we need. We are a brighter, stronger humanity when we react with love. Difference, struggle, and upset will always be parts of the human experience, but if we focus on supporting one another, humanity will always prevail, together.

Resistance Through Cinema: Get Out!

GET OUT, 2017. 

Written and directed by Jordan Peele

Starring: Daniel Kaluuya, Allison Williams, 

Bradley Whitford. 

"It's time for a young African American to meet with his white girlfriend's parents for a weekend in their secluded estate in the woods, but before long, the friendly and polite ambience will give way to a nightmare," (IMDB)

This is an amazing, thoughtful film, and while I was inclined to summarize just which media fans of which works or artists would appreciate it most, I'm scrapping it all and saying everyone should see it. It's classified as a suspense/mystery/horror film, but don't let that stop you if these aren't your favorite film genres---this film has a lot to say about humanity, and it explains in very real exchanges between characters how social relations are still rooted in racism and objectification. It's an important work.

Before we get any deeper into that, this seems like a good time to point out just what watching a film like this entails for any viewer, political or not, would-be film scholar or not, who just enjoys movies. In identifying what we find exceptional or pleasurable in films we can group these elements into the following three categories: 

Narrative: "No matter the setting or era, I always love a good Shakespeare story."

Technique: "Stanley Kubrick's One-Point Perspective and colors always look amazing."

Theme: "Racial issues seem to be a common driving force in Spike Lee's films."

People who study film are considering all three of these elements, all the time; some apply different film or literary theories and dissect the art of cinema even deeper, i.e., "Acting is psychology, the camera plays on this psychology, and then the audience is the final receiver of these psychological transactions. This is the interaction of film." 

Why does any of this matter? 

Because this film, Get Out, succeeds on all three of those fronts, and that's a pretty special thing for a horror or suspense film not adapted from a book or short story to do. The story is well-written and its performance spot-on. We're interested by its events and are well-convinced by its actors. Most of us identify with Chris (Kaluuya) immediately, regardless of our own gender or cultural background, as he is shown to be the most important character in the film (onto which as viewers, we will project ourselves--there's that film theory again). Because we align with Chris, we are with him, we want him to succeed, but we are also more importantly seeing the events of the film through his eyes and perceptions, which happen to be those of an African American male. 

The techniques used in film can include everything from cinematography, editing, costume, lighting, and music. In this film, scenery is really important---the places, Urban Brooklyn, the freeways, the estate in the northern forest, are not just about geography but a continuum of ideological systems (safety to risk to all-out hostility). The lighting is at times bright and false as well as dark and foreboding. Objects (teacups and spoons, cell phones, framed photographs, bingo cards) are shown very closely to emphasize importance. Foreshadowing is used; suspense is skillfully done. Music is orchestral and jarring as well as guitar and folksy. Every technical choice made both on-camera and in the post-production enhancements has created a wonderfully aesthetic film experience, providing beauty and art even within the overall setting of danger.

The theme. This is what takes the film above and beyond typical horror or suspense films, and what makes it relevant, political, and part of the Resistance Through Cinema list. The theme, simply put, is to wake up. Talk to each other, value each other, accept our differences and embrace our similarities. Even before Chris is in any danger, we witness different situations of hostility: his girlfriend hits a deer with her car and the police begin to harass Chris; every white person Chris comes across speaks awkwardly about their favorite black athlete, being an Obama supporter, or other patronizing topics; Chris is largely prevented from interacting with any other African Americans at the gathering. It's uncomfortable and suspicious, but necessary---this kind of treatment and much worse is a reality for countless people.

The events of the film's narrative (kidnapping, medical experimentation, return to slavery) allow us to consider some of the realistic happenings outside the film that could potentially lead to them (racism, objectification, human trafficking), which are relevant in our lives, today, and likely will be for a while unless we start getting comfortable with having conversations about them. If there's a single takeaway from the film, it's LET'S MAKE A WORLD WHERE THIS ISN'T A LEGITIMATE FEAR, yeah? Watching a film might seem like a small thing, an unimportant thing, but empathy can come from unexpected places, and little acts can change perceptions and behaviors. Walk in Chris's shoes for a while and see how it feels. Then . . . do something.

Seven Samurai

Yes, it's long (207 minutes), yes it's old, and subtitled. You should still watch it though, and give it your full attention. There are wonderful things inside.

Seven Samurai, 1954. Directed by Akira Kurosawa.
Starring: Toshiro Mifune, Takashi Shimura, Keiko Tsushima.

"A poor village under attack by bandits recruits seven unemployed samurai to help them defend themselves." (IMDB).


This is a story from another time, but one I think Americans owe it to themselves to see. It's not a preachy film, it's not horribly graphic (especially by today's standards) but it is violent; it's about war and the effects of war, I suppose honor and commitment, too.

Everything that happens is pretty much a struggle for these farmers. Their food keeps getting ripped off by a group of bandits, so the village elder (no doubt Lucas' inspiration for what would later become Yoda) suggests they hire samurais to ward off the thieves. A group of them go to the village to find some, but have only rice for payment, which unfortunately also gets stolen. One samurai agrees to help them and rounds up four other true samurai, an eager would-be Padawan, and an obnoxious buffoon (Mifune) to make seven warriors---together they lay down some plans but the farmers and their families are just as terrified of their saviors as they are their tormentors. When the bandits finally return, the only option is to pick them off either one or two at a time as the farmers (even with the samurais' help) are outnumbered and out skilled. It's tedious and tiring watching them do this, but somehow it all feels very genuine, how a real situation like this would feel.

It's not all completely negative, there are quite a few moments of comedy mostly from Kikuchiyo (Mifune) as the outlandish prankster (my favorite is actually one of his most toned-down moments as the young guy is gushing with admiration for one of the other samurai----Kikuchiyo looks away and yawns with, "I'm not bored at all. Honestly.") And while he's extremely funny with all the yelling and jumping around and snarling at the village children, calling them brats or piss-pants, he's also responsible for the film's most emotional moment, which also concerns a child, when he admits tearfully to the other warriors that the child he's just saved represents the exact same events from his own life; "this child is me!" Heavy.

It's almost as if the technique lends a hand in accomplishing the varying moods of the film as well---the undercranked camera gives the illusion of super speed and chaos as they're all running and charging each other; over cranking it during a slain man's fall to the ground (together with the absence of sound) creates slowness, drawing it out to the very last breath. I remember one of my professors contrasting Kurosawa's killing method to Sam Peckinpah's, but I suppose virtually any other director of a war film will apply in that a single death (even of an enemy) often doesn't carry much weight, normally, but each death seems to matter in this---no one just gets smoked, they're having to run for their lives, escape swords, hide, and beg before the deed is finally done, with the camera often times lingering on their lifeless bodies for moments afterwards. These are some of the greatest battle scenes ever filmed, some of the most meaningful, and it was only 1954!

Can I help you?

Also, it's impossible to not be on the side of the samurai, from the first moment we meet their leader, Kanbe Shimada (Takashi Shimura) who pretty much shines with Morgan Freeman-calibre charm throughout the the film, we immediately put our faith and trust in him to guide the farmers to victory (which he mostly does at the expense of his brethren). After he's shaved his head, rescued the child, and is walking down the road, there's a great shot of the back of his head (as seen by the younger man who asks to be taken on as his disciple) and it's a simple thing but very powerful. He's constantly running his hand over his head as he thinks, considers, or even laughs at things, so it's a clever kind of attention given to the item that in the end, gets the job done (for the most part).

During a senior film seminar my last semester at the U, we were made to attend The Last Samurai (the one starring Tom Cruise). Largely due to the strength of this film, Seven Samurai (Seven *believable* Samurai) I was not able to stomach it and left just before the ending, honestly considering asking for my money back.

Citizen Kane

And um, Hot!

Check out pretty much any top film list ever made and you'll see this one in the top five, every time. I remember discussing it with some of my mother's friends once, as they could not figure out what the fuss was all about and asked me what I thought. I defended it, and gave a sort of half-assed explanation of what "deep focus" meant and why it was important in the film, and that the film was about mystery and popularity, and loss, but I was probably 24 when I was recycling all this bullshit, and had no true idea of what I was really saying, much less what the film was really about. I think I know a little more now.

Citizen Kane, 1941. Directed by Orson Welles.
starring: Orson Welles, Joseph Cotton, Dorothy Comingore

"Following the death of a publishing tycoon, news reporters scramble to discover the meaning of his final utterance." (IMDB).


Though heavy with flashbacks and told out-of-sequence, the narrative of this story is quite simple: a journalist seeks to uncover the meaning behind the word, "Rosebud," the last word spoken by Charles Foster Kane (Welles), a world-famous publishing icon. The man interviews Kane's colleagues, one ex-wife, and consults the diary of a former guardian but in the end, gains absolutely no insight into what the word meant to Kane and deems it a forever mystery, though the film's conclusion reveals to the audience that "Rosebud," was the word printed across Kane's childhood sled (which is tossed into a furnace and destroyed).

A heavenly revelation?

In many ways the story is relevant today; a study of a famous person's public self vs. their private one---or leaving aside fame, posing the question of just how well we think we know the people in our lives. Charles Foster Kane revealed very little of himself throughout his life, but the purpose of the film is to piece together the things he did reveal in order to answer the question no one else could. It's said many times (by those who knew him) that Kane wanted love, only did things on his own terms, and was shown to be a collector of things, be they statues, adorations, or people---and that it's not enough to know what a man did, but rather who he was.

The technical aspects of this film (lighting, deep focus, moving camera, composition of shots, montage sequences) aren't just fancy, artistic flair---they're instrumental in understanding Kane, they're clues! More even than deep focus (of which lighting obviously plays a key part), the lighting in this film reveals all its secrets. Who's in the dark? How is Kane lit, how much of his body is showing? What items are in the foreground, and why? Consider the sizes of things, the settings, the actors, what's grandiose, and what's larger than life? How much emotion is shown in Kane---how close does the camera get to his face, and when? While it's fun to nerd out on a lot of this stuff (and as I sort of discovered when I was trying to get other people as excited about this film as I was), lip service doesn't pay unless you've seen it, and even then, trying to use words to describe a lot of this is pointless----you really just have to see these images together in a whole to get not only their full effect but to appreciate their uniqueness and power.



There are two occasions where Kane lets his guard down, not directly, but to the two others being interviewed (Thatcher, Susan Alexander). The first is early in the film and Kane's young life, arguably the most crucial sequence, when Thatcher assumes guardianship and takes Kane from his parents, the second is after Susan leaves Xanadu and Kane not only destroys her room but begins to cry. Scattered among the film are bits of dialogue, mostly from either Bernstein, Leland, or Susan that suggest Kane wanted acceptance and love but was unable to reciprocate any himself.

Rosebud!

"It wasn't money he wanted . . . "
"All he really wanted out of life was love. He loved Charlie Kane, of course, and his mother."
"You never give me anything that belongs to you, nothing that you care about."
"If hadn't been very rich, I might have been a really great man."

Most of the discussions on the theme of this film revolve around Kane's loss of childhood, signified by the sled, Rosebud. I don't think it's his lost childhood he's lamenting at all, but rather the loss of his mother, the abandonment he suffered at her hands, no matter how well-intentioned she may have been. Were it only his childhood he wanted to reclaim, he'd have been able to form true and loving relationships with the women in his life, and he probably would have been able to find real happiness, eventually. When his mother decides to send him away to lead a more dignified life with Thatcher as his guardian, she cuts herself out of his life and in effect, makes him into an orphan. "Why aren't you coming with us, Mom?" he questions, as his father, childish, and somewhat of a buffoon, blathers on in the background about big lights and money. He not only refuses to shake hands with his new benefactor but charges into him (using Rosebud as a battering ram). Later, we see young Charles less than enthusiastic about his Christmas present (from Thatcher), a replacement Rosebud, and eventually after deciding to go into publishing, spends much of his time smearing and making political trouble for the man who took him away from his beloved mother.

That he saved her things is also significant; he mentions them almost in passing the night he meets Susan, telling her, "I was on my way to the Western Manhattan Warehouse in search of my youth," where all his mother's things were in storage. At the film's conclusion, one of the assistants (just after another finds one of Susan's jigsaw puzzles) notices Mary Kane's stove, collected and stored alongside numerous other priceless statues. The snow globe of Susan's that he seems to treasure so much is a token to not only his childhood, yes, but of his childhood home, the safety of his mother, and the only love that he had ever known (for which he spent the remainder of his life pursuing a replacement).

"Mother is the word for God on the hearts and lips of all little children."
Et tu, Charlie?

Sopranos. Books.

Here are a few more:

1. The Sopranos Family Cookbook, 2002, by Allen Rucker. Recipes by Michele Scicolone.

Fun. Half actual recipes, half "interviews" with various characters from the show; fans of the show will dig this, a lot. Great photography, too (opening inside cover is Livia burning the mushrooms). I've honestly only made two things from this cookbook, the Sunday Gravy recipe and Totoni (almond cream dessert) but they were both amazing. Next time I need to blackmail someone I may just look up the Ricott Pie Carmela used, that looked pretty good, too.

2. The Sopranos, A Family History, 2000, by Allen Rucker.

Mostly this is good because of the photography, but there's a nice interview with David Chase toward the back as well as a complete episode list and synopsis, but the volume I have is only current through the second season. There is some interesting "history" included, stuff you won't really get from the show, about Livia and Junior, but some of the other material (FBI office memos, journal entries, Meadow's chat transcriptions, etc.) seems a little . . . cheesy. I don't know, you can keep the attitude light when it comes to food, but the rest of this subject is very dark and sinister. I'm not saying it needs to be more Godfather-ish or anything, but, actually, yes. This needed to be more God-fatherish and less, I don't know, flighty and Jenny McCarthy.

3. A Sitdown With The Sopranos, 2002, edited by Regina Barreca.

This was heavy. Less so than the Lavery (This Thing of Ours) but nice, interesting reading. The best things about it were that all the essays were written by Italian Americans (Berreca, Flamini, Parini, Pestana, and so on)---it was awesome hearing what they had to say about a narrative that has caused some riffs within the culture, and secondly, only about half of the contributing authors were professors. As a result, the essays were much more fun to read and less of a downer than the critical essays in the Lavery. More personal stories + hardly any mention of post-modern = WINNER. I liked it. Jay Parini's essay, The Cultural Work of The Sopranos was easily my favorite:

"In general, The Sopranos holds up a mirror to American middle-class life, and the distortions viewed in the mirror seem exaggerated for the sake of narrative effect. But these effects are not nearly as distorted as we like to imagine. Though comprising less than twenty-five percent of the global village, we consume over seventy percent of the world's resources. Our gaudy lifestyle, with its insatiable thirst for resources, presupposes a level of violence: against nature, against our world neighbors, against each other. In The Sopranos, this violence is normalized, made to appear casual, unremarkable."

You said it, man. The more I watch (well, re-watch) the more I realize: The Mafia obviously isn't very nice, but capitalism honestly isn't very nice, either.

This Thing of Ours.

This Thing of Ours: Investigating The Sopranos, 2002, edited by David Lavery.

1. This book pretty much marked the point I realized that there were people out there, respectable  and educated people, who geeked out about film and television WAAAAAAAAY more than I ever knew was possible. One of my favorite professors dug this out when I met with her to discuss the senior paper I was planning to do; I went home and immediately ordered my own copy.

2. David Lavery is my favorite television author/editor. In addition to this volume, he's also put out similar studies and essays on Twin Peaks (Full of Secrets) and Lost (Lost's Buried Treasures) among other programs----it's safe to say that if I was an academic I'd want his job.

What we have here is a collection of critical essays on The Sopranos, intellectual as hell. Some, with their Marxism, post-modern obsession and Orwellian comparisons, really made my head hurt, even now. And yes, some of the essays irritated me with their refusal to just see the show for what it was---A NARRATIVE, someone's story, someone's vision---and not an ideological set of regulations to be paraded as absolute philosophy (I want to scream, HEY! At no point is David Chase or anyone else involved with the show suggesting that all women must writhe around the pole at the Bing or be kept under lock and key in the kitchen baking endless pans of lasagna . . . )

Topics covered: Italian-American defamation, feminism, television as a unique media, the show's roots to cinema, the gangster genre itself, geography, music, food, and the downward trend of Mafia culture (1970s to 2000) together with its relevance to society. And that this show can be dissected a million different ways. Lavery, in his prologue, compares the show to an elephant in the dark, "whose nature reveals itself in entirely different ways depending on which part of its complex being is currently being examined."

Kind of crafty. My favorite article, "The Eighteenth Brumaire of Tony Soprano," by Steven Hayward and Andrew Biro, did a great job of examining the show's complexities in several different contexts, (capitalism, Napoleon, Marxism, I'M NOT KIDDING, The Godfather, and the Mafia code of silence)

"Don Corleone might have inhabited a world in which certain things (honor, community, and so on) had a value in and of themselves, but Tony Soprano is forced to inhabit a world in which dollar values are the only values that matter. While Tony's nephew Christopher wants nothing more than to become a "made" man -- to become a fully-fledged member of the Mafia community, bound by the omerta (code of silence) -- this desire does not prevent him from writing a screenplay based on his own experiences and the tales he has heard. It is a similar kind of contradiction that structures the series as a whole: Tony is a gangster undergoing psychotherapy (or, as Freud called it, "the talking cure"): a mob boss who has to talk to maintain his position."

It's fun. There was only one article I honestly couldn't get behind even a little, not really because of the subject matter but because of the choppy, unprofessional prose (mostly epitaphs) and the fact that the two authors accused Livia of being OVERWRITTEN. Please. The coming of feminism (first, second, third wave or beyond) does not change the fact that there are some seriously unpleasant women out there. Get over it.

The Sopranos, season 2, proper.

The Sopranos, season 2, 2000.

Bluntly, season 2 emanates anger, hostility, and violence from the word go, and a lot of it is difficult to stomach; in other words, this is the season for viewers who found the first season a bit too warm and fuzzy (this ain't your mama's Sopranos). Everyone's got issues with everyone.

New Characters:

Janice Soprano (Aida Turturro), Tony's older sister comes for a visit. Having moved to Seattle and changed her name to Pavarti, Janice seems to shun everything about her traditional Italian upbringing . . . until she gets mad about something and The Soprano in her surfaces (with a vengeance).





Richie Aprile (David Proval) returns from a ten-year prison stint, also with a vengeance, almost like a soft-spoken, psychotic version of Mean Streets' Johnny Boy (which Proval actually co-starred in with Keitel and DeNiro). This guy really seems to have a beef with everything and exists mostly to create trouble for Tony, not the least of it being carrying on with Janice, but his story is a good one. Doesn't end well, though.



Furio Giunta (Frederico Castelluccio), a soldier from an Italian crew in Naples joins The Soprano crew and proves himself adept at unsavory, violent jobs as well as mozzarella-making for Artie Bucco. One of the season's best scenes involves Furio's first "assignment" at a tanning booth/prostitution operation: As he pushes his way through the doors and clients to get to the owner who's been holding out, Tony waits outside in the car, delighted by the screams and gunshots heard from inside the building.


In terms of style, most of the best shots of the second season really revolve around Junior; his wheelchair-cam as they roll him down the hall in the hospital, the stubborn pride and posture he takes when he finally comes to Tony with the news that Richie is planning to have him killed, and that quick, crazy shot of him peeking out the window of the deserted building on the shore during Tony's dream? Creepy!

And of course, the montage to Sinatra's "It Was a Very Good Year" during the first episode (link below), where everyone's daily events just sort of fade into each other in randomness---Livia, alone during her physical therapy, Paulie Walnuts, enjoying a well-implanted dancer from The Bing, and Carmella, serving endless pans of pasta to the family (each time in a more dazzling set of triple-necklaces and pastel linen pants).

The series' second season is definitely darker and less joyful than the first: Tony abandons his therapy with Dr. Melfi, and his behavior, panic attacks, and general disposition all suffer horribly as a result.  He finds that being Boss is incredibly stressful. Disagreements among Tony's and Junior's crews (mostly facilitated by Richie Aprile) create tension and aggression that lead to repeated acts of violence. Because of this, Tony is advised by his attorney to spend time at his legitimate businesses for a while, which further depresses him. My favorite scene comes at the end of "House Arrest," when Tony finally comes back to Satriale's after days spent at Barone Sanitation. While he's welcomed back adoringly by his crew, he also stands outside on the sidewalk and banters with Agent Harris (of the FBI), who just dropped by to introduce his new partner. Having a conversation about a sudden car accident with the feds that are following him is comfortable and normal, even, because he's back on his turf again, where things make sense. I liked that.

(clips have violence, profanity, and brief sexual content, FYI).

King vs. Kubrick: The Shining.

I picked this up when I was 7.

This isn't going to be easy; I feel like I'm having to choose between my parents or something. I love Stephen King; I love Stanley Kubrick. But I think this "discussion" is a worthy one. And please feel free to tell me your thoughts on this, too, I'd love to hear where everyone else stands. Here we go:

The Shining, 1977, by Stephen King.

Events: Jack Torrance, a writer and former schoolteacher, takes a caretaker job at a grand and mysterious hotel in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. His five year old son, Danny, has a very special talent that allows him to see visions from the past, forecasts of events to come, and into the minds of others---and straight away Danny senses the hotel, The Overlook, is full of secrets and demons.

During their stay, some of the topiary hedge animals seem to move; the hotel elevator begins to operate on its own, and one of the rooms (217) has its own particular franchise on The Overlook's sordid past (REDRUM). These events are at first subtle and would seem almost harmless or hallucinatory were it not for Danny's special gift. From the first moment he learned of The Overlook, Danny saw this stuff happening, he knows that it's real, and he's seen how it ends over and over in his nightmares! Most of the reader's concern involves sympathy and fear for the child, thrust in the middle of events that would make a grown adult soil herself . . . this story is not an easy one to handle: nightmares, lights left on, nightmares, did that book shelf just move? Fire hose, bathtub, REDRUM! REDRUM! I had about three seriously ridiculous nights of discomfort trying to shove these things from my mind and think happy thoughts!

 At the same time the hotel really gets going, tomfoolery-wise, Jack, who struggles with his own personal demons of Daddy Issues, failure, and alcoholism, begins to unravel. It's explained over and over in many ways just how meaningful and complicated Jack's relationship with Danny is, and as he tries to focus on his work, both hotel-related maintenance and his unfinished play, Jack finds himself having strange, angry resentment toward his family and becoming more and more obsessed with the hotel and its history. King said in an interview that many of the events in this novel were confessionals over feelings of anger and resentment a father (or mother) feels toward children, which can go hand-in-hand with feelings of intense love and adoration the parent also feels; it's a complex thing, but not invalid, you know? It's a pretty ballsy thing to do, not only writing about stuff that is taboo, parenting-wise, but then owning it honestly and admitting that it grew from actual feelings. Heavy. Jack Torrance in many ways is an extremely real character because of this, there are many chapters written from Jack's point of view and he's just as bothered and confused by it as we are!

Some might see this as a horror novel, and it is horrifying, but the most disturbing things are not the evil hotel or any of its twisted, rotting minions, but the almost casual subtlety of the evil, those moving hedge creatures scared me the same way the hotel room menu did in 1408: ("the menu was in Russian; the menu was in Italian; there was no menu,") and the documented descent of human beings who are flawed, but still people nonetheless. This is an extremely sad of bunch events, and it's the struggle that has real power here, not the end but the means to it that pack the greatest punch.

Writing: King has a genius ability to do two things in his novels, well, three if you count SCARING THE PISS OUT OF READERS, but that's actually not important right now. The first thing about King's writing that occurs consistently in all of his stories is the knack for telling and explaining things as if he is actually speaking it aloud, to you, personally (or making you feel as if he's your friend Steve, the storyteller). I don't know anything about Stephen King personally, have never met him, probably never will, but dammit, don't you feel like you know this guy? It's clearly due to the heart he pours into his characters, which of course, comes from his own, but seriously, I feel somehow connected to him just because of the way he writes, and that's probably the greatest compliment a writer can get.

Secondly: Humor and Sarcasm. Aces.

(Danny ponders a conversation his father had), " . . . but Mr. Ullman would probably do neither because he was a CHEAP PRICK. Danny knew that this was one of the worst epithets his father could summon. It was applied to certain doctors, dentists, and appliance repairmen, and also to the board of his English Department at Stovington, who had disallowed some of Daddy's book orders because he said the books would put them over budget. 'Over budget, hell,' he had fumed to Wendy---Danny had been listening from his bedroom where he was supposed to be asleep. 'He's just saving the last five hundred bucks for himself, the CHEAP PRICK."

(Jack is locked in the pantry) "Have to use your brain. The celebrated Jack Torrance brain. Aren't you the fellow who once was going to live by his wits? Jack Torrance, best-selling author. Jack Torrance, acclaimed playwright and winner of the New York Critics Circle Award. John Torrance, man of letters, esteemed thinker, winner of the Pulitzer Prize at seventy for his trenchant book of memoirs, My Life in the Twentieth Century. All any of that shit boiled down to was living by your wits."

Comparisons: All right, let's get to it. Is the novel better, or is the film better? The film (as you know from my past ramblings) is one of my very favorites, and is neater, cleaner, and obviously more visually and acoustically moving than the novel. But that doesn't necessarily make it better. I think the heart of the story was honestly about something bad happening to (mostly) good people, and you are only going to see that if you read the novel; the film has no love for any of the Torrances.

Whereas King's Torrance is clearly conflicted, Kubrick's Torrance seems to be destined for lunacy. He hardly shows any (sober) emotion at all to anyone, if you don't count Nicholson's arched-eyebrows grin to Ullman after hearing the unfortunate tale of Mr. Grady et al. The relationship with Danny and Danny as a person altogether hardly matter in the film. ("Dad? I'm hungry." "Well, you should have eaten your breakfast." The end).

You don't sense any emotion between any of the Torrances because Kubrick hardly has them speak to each other; there is a lot more conversation in the book, maybe even a bit too much, but they at least seem to matter to each other or explain what they're thinking. King's Jack was an interesting guy, funny even, and we mourn his metamorphosis into Crazy-Overlook-Jack because we lose touch with the real Jack and we care about Wendy and Danny. Not so in the film. Kubrick and Nicholson's Jack was almost like a man caught in limbo waiting to become Crazy-Overlook-Jack, and as viewers, we find this Jack infinitely more interesting. Where Kubrick is motivated by isolation and insanity, King is motivated by humanity and tragedy. Two very different themes. And while I will always-always-always consider The Shining one of my very favorite films, I'm more of a writer than a filmmaker, and I almost think Kubrick should have credited it "inspired by" rather than "based on" King's original work. I do not get the feeling of closeness to Kubrick that I do with King, and I get the feeling that Kubrick kind of likes it that way.

That said, I wouldn't have either of them change a thing (how's that for diplomacy?)

The Sopranos, season 1, proper.

The Sopranos, Season One, 1999.
Created by David Chase.
Starring: James Gandolfini, Lorraine Braco, Edie Falco, Michael Imperioli, Dominic Chianese, Tony Sirico, Steve Van Zandt, Nancy Marchand, Jamie-Lynn Sigler, Robert Iler.

I don't want to be unnecessarily dramatic here, but this series is hands down one of the best in the history of television. So much so that there really will not ever be anything else like it, Mafia-related or otherwise. If you haven't already, you really owe it to yourself to see it, even if you hate mob stories or violence, because there is more than meets the eye to Tony Soprano. He just might be more like you than you realize.


EVENTS: The Sopranos obviously has firm roots in Gangster culture, but before we get to that, let's be clear on a few other things first. The experience here is only partly focused on The Mafia; you know, the Italian-American based crime families of New York and New Jersey who make living from robbery, extortion, illegal gambling, illegal loans, bribery, and who solve problems with fists, feet, and fishes (as in putting their enemies to sleep with them). But that's only one side of the story.

Tony Soprano (Gandolfini), Captain of North Jersey, is having trouble with panic attacks and begins therapy with Dr. Jennifer Melfi (Braco). Along the way his wife develops an unnaturally close relationship with the priest, his daughter procures methamphetamine to cram for college testing, his son gets suspended from school and might have ADHD. And his mother Livia I-wish-the-Lord-would-take-me Soprano? Madon! It's not his job that's messing with him, it's his family life! (Anyone out there relate?) This series is very different from its mob-centered predecessors in that we see this angle, we're let in on a (powerful) gangster's less glamorous moments: Eating cereal. Driving his daughter to college visits. Meeting with a school psychologist. Placing his unwilling mother into a retirement community.

There's a wonderful scene early on where Tony is cleaning out his mother's house after she's moved out. He's putting framed photographs from a shelf into a box and pauses to study two of his mother holding him as a baby and seated next to him as an older child, smiling. Throughout the show it is affirmed and reaffirmed over and over that this woman is unpleasant, conniving, and mean-spirited, but there is no denying the fact that despite it all, Livia matters very much to Tony and he still loves her. It's emotional.

STYLE: Of course, it's not all melodrama, and there are some seriously wonderful bits of production happening here. The pilot episode gets the best of these moments, but the rest of the series ain't slacking either. Tony chases down a man who owes him money to the happy tune "Love You Like I Do," much in the vain of a Scorcese film. Gangster humor, "Whaddya cryin' for? Huh? HMO! You're covered! You prick!" When Chris (Imperioli) meets Czech rival Emil at Satriale's after hours to discuss sanitation strategies and things don't go well, a different black and white portrait (Martin, Bogart, Cagney) is cut in between the sound of each bullet spent together with Bo Diddley's "I'm a Man." Nice.

There's also a really great accompaniment to two separate scenes, just a synth and a drum machine, probably, but it's very effective stylization. The first moment happens at Tony's first session with Melfi; he narrates his feelings of having "come in at the end" (of the mob's golden age) as we see him walk down his enormous driveway to fetch his morning paper. Later the same music plays as he relocates his arsenal of cash and guns from a ceiling panel to the closet of his mother's retirement home. It's a small thing, but one of the many things that makes this series stand out.

NODS: We've heard for years, "it's not TV, it's HBO," and in this case, it's true. The Sopranos was one of the first major television shows that actually felt cinematic, like the world's longest film we could enjoy one Sunday night at a time. Profanity, nudity, violence all basically uncensored, and no commercial breaks, but probably best of all are the little homages paid to its ancestors---not other television shows but cinema: The Godfather Trilogy.

"You broke my heart!"

Silvio (Van Zandt) is called upon to quote Godfather (part three) on demand; Chris inaccurately quotes the first Godfather as he attempts to hurl Emil's body into a dumpster ("Louis Brazzi sleeps with the fishes!") Father Phil is well studied on Coppola's cinematographer, Gordon Lewis. When Tony's daughter Meadow's soccer coach takes a job at another school, stating "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Paulie (Sirico) says, "You haven't heard ours yet." Probably most memorable of all is the segment of the season one finale, where in the true spirit of Michael Corleone Tony touches his mother's cheek as she rolls by in a gurney and tells her, "I know it was you." (!!!)

There are production nods too, really skillful shots that together with the music, again, feel more like a film than a television show. The night shot of Silvio walking away from Vesuvio just before it ignites, the time and dedication given to Tony's constant scrutinizing Melfi's artwork, and the way power is portrayed, especially evident in Episode 12, "Isabella,"--- Paulie and Silvio's walk down the hospital corridor, the crew gathered around Tony's bar as they plot against Tony's Uncle Junior (Chianese), and the deadpan limo ride with Anthony Jr. and his date ("Can we have some of that whiskey?") There are goose-bump moments like these in almost every episode.

Bravo, Mr. Chase. Bravo. And that second clip made me frickin' bawl my eyes out over here.

Mean Streets

Whatsa matter with you?

Mean Streets, 1973, directed by Martin Scorcese.
Written by Martin Scorcese and Mardik Martin
starring: Harvey Keitel, Robert DeNiro, David Proval

"A small-time hood struggles to succeed on the "mean streets" of Little Italy." (imdb).

I love this. Little Italy in the seventies; what a place. This was only Scorcese's third feature length film, but man, it's a goodie. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but Harvey Keitel? Hot. I'm not kidding.

This film is full of fun:

-opening scene: "You don't make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home." You said it, man. Those three edits, each cut closer than the last as he lays back down in his bed (to the Ronettes?) . . . so, so cool.

-the religious stuff. Constant thrusting hands into flames, confession, wallpaper very cross-like in hotel, San Gennero Festival, etc., it's major. Keitel's character (Charlie) is referred to as "Saint Charles."

-DeNiro as Johnny Boy. The scene when he walks down the bar with the two chicks to "Jumping Jack Flash" is *legendary.* The scene just afterwards where he goes on for about THREE DAYS about his money woes with Charlie---even at that young an age (30 years old, y'all) DeNiro was something else.

-This film was very carefully conceived. It was a story of the exact kinds of things young Martin Scorcese witnessed, asthma-bound, from his own window in his old neighborhood: hoods, connected guys, religion, and music. And though Charlie and Johnny Boy seem to end up in the gutter, did you happen to notice the opening credits (after the Ronettes)? They're home movies, started off in a very obvious way paying homage to A FILM PROJECTOR. The films themselves are of Charlie and Theresa holding a little baby in a very elaborate Christening gown and a cake that's iced with the words, "God Bless Christopher." I'm not going to get into how seriously this turns me into a complete, emotional water works, but how's that for a (secret) happy ending? Tricky, tricky. The very last scene of the film just so happens to be someone closing their window shades, by the way. . .

This film was pretty much a valentine by Scorcese to Little Italy. I love it.

The quality is not great on this clip, and it's missing some valuable lead up (DeNiro checks his *pants* at the coat-check; Keitel's character says, "Thanks a lot, Lord, thanks a lot, for opening my eyes. You talk about penance and you send this through the door. . . ") but it's the best I could find. Incidentally, the giggling bartender (Proval) would later go onto become the unfortunately-hacked-to-pieces-by-Christopher-and-Tony Ritchie Aprile from The Sopranos', second season. He doesn't quite have such a sense of humor in that, does he?