M

Dir. Fritz Lang
1931
n/a

Over the course of time repetitious opinions, actions and thoughts slowly develop into a sturdy and sometimes obstinate system of beliefs. From these convictions arise momentary conflicts of interest generally extending from questions of morality, justice and other abstract but highly debatable subject matter. It is these subjects that shed light on the falsely assumed objectivity of belief systems and how they are actually designed to suit a purpose: simplify. If a figure of authority can directly say “this is right and that is wrong” than the whole problem of deciphering the mentality that allows say, a premeditated murder to be punished and a “crime of passion” to go unpunished, is solved. Justice and the like take on a coldly mathematical logic. However, what is really occurring in such a scenario is the neglecting of idiosyncrasies in favor of a highly relative and questionable system of equity. In terms of crime and punishment Fritz Lang's historic M unearthed a terrifying and blatant discrepancy: passion is far too often equated with injustice. This fundamental theory extends not just to realm of criminality but also to the law. When dealing with 'crimes of passion', 'uncontrollable impulses' or any matter pertaining to justice, it is paramount that both impulse and passion be abandoned in the name of integrity and truth.

Before Little Children, Silence of the Lambs, Night of the Hunter, and so many other dramas took on the mysterious and taboo subject of pathological murders, Fritz Lang designed a complex and riveting film about this same psychological addiction. Based on a German child murder from the 1920s, M begins as a prerequisite to Hollywood's addictive film noir, with intrigue and mysterious, forbidden lust. It unfurls with focused constraint as tension and panic sweeps over a city in the height of fear over what might now be called 'homeland security'. Lang unveils, occasionally with uncomfortable but revelatory levels of social satire, the suspicion and paranoia of a city in the throws of psychological insecurity. Although the police do their best, and also in private moments outline the hopelessness of their cause, they are unable to boil down the thousands of leads (most of them insanely vague accusations from one neighbor against another) into any sustainable evidence. A group of local mobsters decide to take matters into their own hands and organize the Union of Beggars to keep a watch over the city (note: because they have nothing better to do, right?). The Murderer (Peter Lorre) is eventually cornered by the mob and forced into a Kafkaesque trial in which his sentence is essentially already known. He begs the jury, who are actually a horde of lawless, hypocritical bigots, to comprehend that it is his internal demons that cause him to kill; that he does not want to, but he must. Although it almost appears that a few of the hundreds in attendance at this most theatrical of trials believe and pity him, the rest want to see him torn to shreds. He is rescued in a moment of Biblical divinity by the police who escort him to his lawful trial where it is assumed he is placed in an asylum until he can be “cured”.

When it comes to films about pathological murderers, a good many of them often eschew answering the difficult question of what makes a killer kill in favor of suspense and drama. Whether it's because the writers don't have the capacity to articulate the root of the illness or more likely that their assumed audience will be bored by psychological theorizing, the daunting question is elided from the plot with relative ease. In M the question is not ignored and it is in the Murderer's confession that he seeks to convey the depths of his affliction and his powerlessness, not only to his 'jury' but to us as well. There is no doubt that this sort of first person view of something so terribly anathematic, in the eyes of our worldly culture, is both fascinating and disturbing. We want so badly to understand, but at the same time an understanding complicates our need for cut and dry justice. Crime and equivocal punishment. As much as we find the susceptibility to mental disease in others tantalizing we'd ultimately rather have a proclamation of guilt or innocence to sooth our mind rather than irritate it with unending questions, and concerns over the 'correct' (that is, morally acceptable) thing being done.

It is the film's final sequence where the two trials (the unlawful and the lawful, which Lang compares throughout the film, both cinematically and philosophically) are seen for their stark contrasts, that I am painfully reminded of trials I have seen on television in the last few years. Homicide or manslaughter trial coverage almost inevitably includes the closing statements made not only by the lawyers but by the family of the deceased as well. They are almost always emotionally charged accusations that have little or no bearing on the case at hand. In an unprofessional and grossly upsetting means of compensation, the family members are given their few minutes to charge the defendant with the crimes he most certainly has already been acquitted or condemned of. What's sad is how these moments end up having the greatest effect on public opinion. In the face of iniquity a great many more crimes of injustice may be committed. No one should be deprived of their right to grieve, but when that grief is misused as a pulpit then the real tragedy has occurred. The last moment of the film shows a weeping mother, still beside herself with anguish saying “This will not bring our children back”. It is in this profound statement that the paradox of murder trials can be found: neither death, nor life imprisonment, nor institutionalization can bring back the dearly departed. Justice is almost never simple, but in grasping its subjectivity we might discover that an unflinching claim for retribution might be a pathology all its own.

L'Atalante

Dir. Jean Vigo
1934
n/a

Some marriages are not built to last. Some might claim that this is because a human being's psychologically programmed first priority is reproduction and monogamy goes against that instinct. I think it is a bit more complicated than that. Romance is like an intense friendship. For instance, you may find that you really enjoy spending time with a person but cannot tolerate living with them. This is because upon living with them you discover a whole new set of characteristics, both good and bad, that you wouldn't have otherwise known about. It is also invasive if you're the type of person who needs private space and time to your self. Some marriages come too early and the couple finds that all the luxuries they had in being just a couple are lost upon entering into matrimony. Couples have their own conceptions of what their union will be like and how perfect it will be that are often times unrealistic in relation to their present situation. Jean Vigo's L'Atalante is a study in what makes a marriage work, but more importantly what makes it fall apart at the seams. It is a piece by piece dissection of what keeps us together and drives us apart, and the more that occasional futility of romance.

Jean (Jean Daste) and Juliette (Dita Parlo) have just been married. The stage is set for disappointment as it becomes clear that Juliette's primary reason for marrying Jean was so she could flee her hometown aboard L'Atalante, Jean's cargo vessel. They are joined by the kind idiot Papa Jules (Michel Simon) and 'the kid' (Louis Lefebvre). Trouble stirs early in the delusive paradise as Jean has a habit of flying into nasty, uncontrollably jealous rages whenever he sees his lovely bride being sought after by another man. It is here that Vigo puts on display an irony as old as time: Jean's jealousy extends from his love for and adoration of Juliette, but the way it manifests itself ultimately drives her away. In his madness he demands that the ship move forward, leaving Juliette behind, just offshore.

It is at this point where the physical movement of characters and their actions become a grand metaphor for subconscious desires. Both Jean and Juliette flee. The two feel trapped, in separate ways. Juliette wants to see Paris, which follows her pattern of wanting something larger and more intriguing for herself. Jean is a naturally independent and aggressive young man who doesn't like to be proved wrong by anyone, much less his new bride. It is not long before the two reconcile their differences, albeit not by any kind of mutual sacrifice. Instead they become overwhelmed by disillusionment in regards to what they thought they wanted and thus settle on second-rate pleasure. The film is cyclical in that sense: it ends with the two embracing and laughing, but it leaves the viewer unsure of whether or not this is a good thing. One could easily imagine the two being happy (again) for a few days, and then becoming unstable and depressive (again); falling into the same pattern of leaving and coming back, leaving and coming back.

L'Atalante is about tumultuous love and is largely upsetting in that regard. Its ending is irresolute although the highly poetic style of French romance largely undercuts this effect. The assured and ecstatic faces of the two lovers don't completely quell the inborn insecurity about whether or not Jules and Juliette will ever be completely happy. What makes this film rare is that this question of durability in romance is hardly ever posed in cinema. How many millions of romantic relationships have blossomed on the silver screen and how often does the viewer ever trouble him or herself with the nagging questions about the longevity of love? It's not that this form of romance is cheap; it's what people want to see: unquestionable, inalienable happiness. What is discomforting is that we come to expect what we see on the screen to be true to life as well, but, as anyone who's ever had a failed romance can tell you, it is a bit more complicated than that. Vigo captures that natural contradiction of 'good enough' love in L'Atalante, as well as the marked absence of simplicity. He proposes that love can be as much a struggle as a vacation (if not a lot more). It happens that some people can't see the trip for the travel, only the destination, which is not always where they expected. In short: you can call a cargo ship a luxury yacht, but that alone won't make it true.

City Lights

Dir. Charles Chaplin
1931
n/a

There is something remarkably sexy about Charlie Chaplin. His appearance: small, goofy, and slightly androgynous, all qualities that run counter to conventional sex appeal, and peculiar mannerisms cause him to stand apart from the sleek and toned ideals of beauty. The thing is that Chaplin is just so damn talented. Its like how even a weird looking boy who plays guitar and sings can be appealing to the prettiest of girls. Only with Chaplin, rather than playing guitar, its being a jack of all trades. Chaplin writes, produces, directs, stars in, and composes the music for many of his most memorable films including City Lights. He's like a comedic Orson Welles, before he got fat. Its not just that Chaplin is funny. Plenty of people before and after him have been funny. Its how he harmonizes dramatic and comedic elements in his films; a mix of slapstick and profound romanticism. Its how the tramp's naive good intentions never seem to coalesce with the world he inhabits, yet he always manages to do alright in the end. More than alright in fact. He emerges victorious, always with that distinctly memorable grin on his face.

Chaplin's films are not just comedies. Often times they house within their frames an astonishingly timeless social critique. Modern Times poignantly showed a man pitted against a rigorously mechanical society that is unforgiving to the point of cruelty. In The Gold Rush he unveiled the shocking degree to which people allow themselves to be immoral in the pursuit of riches. City Lights is a hilarious farce that pokes fun at the lives of the rich while simultaneously exposing their mistreatment of the poor. As in most of his films, Chaplin juxtaposes his frail, clumsy and unappealing body with giants and beauties. He is pummeled in a wrestling ring, slapped around by men in tails, and patiently loved by a blind beauty. All the while he is getting himself mixed up in trouble with an “eccentric”, drunken millionaire who's polarized lifestyle of being a friendly drunk and a cold, sober aristocrat invites a myriad of occasions for the tramp to confuse the two. City Lights moves along at a frenzied pace, thanks only in part to the naturally fast paced cinematography of old films. The highly choreographed segments of many of the film's scenes are stunning, and its amazing to think how much of these stunts and acrobatics Chaplin and company did in the time before digital studio effects. Chaplin's dedication to laughable but nonetheless impressive choreography is one of many qualities that keeps City Lights delightfully entertaining every step of the way.

Chaplin's stage persona, the little tramp, is one of the most recognizable and memorable characters the silver screen has ever produced. Case in point: last month, as a means to pass the last few days at school, my dad (a middle school music teacher) showed his classes segments of Modern Times. He was shocked. The kids not only paid attention to the film (a rare occasion for any group of middle schoolers) but found themselves bursting out into laughter during many of the film's wilder moments. Conversely, an older friend told me of a disastrous experience trying to show Citizen Kane to the Freshman English class she teaches. Charlie Chaplin and Orson Welles are certainly of comparable genius, but not of medium. Plenty of people want to have their emotions and thoughts prodded and provoked, but everyone wants to laugh.

Every so often an artist comes around who taps into something universal. If their body of work is focused enough they often come to represent something much larger than themselves. Chaplin is the original romantic comedian and that's why he's sexy. Few men in the last 100 years have been able to parade themselves about so foolishly and for so many people, and still be as appealing as Charlie Chaplin. It should be noted that in no way is Chaplin an idiot-savant. He knew how funny and how charming he was; his confidence is what made his films so successful. To this day no actor (with the possible exception of John Wayne) is more widely recognized for his unique appearance, remarkable stage presence and the quality of his films than that mustachioed tramp: Charlie Chaplin.