The Essentials, Part 2: Screenwriting

          Since I'm trying to come up with a comprehensive list for beginning film studies students, I've decided that there will be no repeats on this list. If you think something from the classics list should be in this list, yet you don't see it, that's because you've already been told to watch it. I will be doing a full list of foreign films in the future, and so I am going to try to keep them at a minimum until I devote a post solely to them.

           For this list on screenwriting, I am going to focus on films where the writing is not only strong, but it is also successful in conveying the kinds of things you learn in a screenwriting course, such as character development, plotting, pacing, dialogue, moral and social issues, etc.


City Lights (1931)

          Just because there's no spoken dialogue, that doesn't mean a film didn't have a writer. Chaplin's City Lights is a beautiful, heartbreaking love story acting like a simple mistaken-identity comedy. The complexity of its writing sneaks up on you in the third act, when the poor tramp is finally recognized by the blind girl selling flowers on the side of the road. When she realizes the kind of sacrifice the tramp has really made, it's hard to keep your eyes dry. This is one of the best, and earliest, examples of the set-up/pay-off screenplay formula. Almost everything that happens in the first half of the movie is referenced again in the latter half, and Chaplin's tight pacing and structure makes this one of his most watchable films.

M (1931)

          M deals with moral ambiguities that even most modern films won't touch. Here we have a man who has a compulsion, a sick compulsion, to murder children. He is terrified of his own desires, and with each murder he commits, the more insane with guilt and anger he becomes. We see a courtroom scene unlike any other, presided over by the criminal underworld, where the guilty judge the guilty, and the moral ambiguities of this scene are constantly observed and understood by the characters. This is a triumphant film because it investigates the darkness inside all of us and passes no judgment. It merely watches these people interact with one another, and it is a bold vision.

Double Indemnity (1944)

          The frame narrative works in Double Indemnity because of the stylistic formula of the Noir. A dissociated voice, somewhere in the clouds, tells us what happens to the people we're watching with an unbelievable clarity. The voice knows where this story goes, he's seen it before, and we're just along for the ride. Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler's script is one of those classic three-act screenplays that delivers exactly as the formula requests, but delivers so well that we forget how many times we've seen the story.

High Noon (1952)

          Carl Foreman's screenplay for High Noon was written as a direct response to the House Un-American Activities Committee. Foreman was blacklisted in Hollywood as a communist, and this screenplay is his reaction to his persecution in the midst of the Cold War. Marshal Kane, played by Gary Cooper, is out against the world and there isn't anybody who can help him. The film takes place in real time, and we get a snapshot of Kane's existence, alone and scared and dark, and all of this is part of a bigger picture--the world, in 1952, was scared and desperate. Foreman writes from a place of fear, and Kane, cornered by the opposition, can do only what he knows how--kill.

The Graduate (1967)

          Benjamin Braddock is a product of the fifties trying to make sense of the changing times. He's just graduated college and he's looking for a place in the world. He holds on to his youth, to his need for a maternal figure, to a person who has already found success and comfort. He knows he can't love her, but he does. It takes the youth of her daughter and the unknown future that she represents for Braddock to grow up. He breaks through his youthful need for a security blanket with his young love, but, in that final, brilliant shot, Braddock remembers that the future is unknown. Where is he going now? Buck Henry's script perfectly encapsulates that feeling of unease that surrounds a time of great change. His movie is the late 1960s.

Scenes from a Marriage (1973)

 
          Scenes from a Marriage chronicles the slow disintegration of a marriage. It begins with the Marianne and Johan's friends announcing their divorce. Marianne says that'll never happen to her own marriage. Johan isn't so sure. This is the beginning of a decade-spanning conversation that covers the mountains and valleys of a long-term relationship. Bergman investigates marriage with an honesty that I've never seen before. These characters rip one another apart, but we are never exposed to melodrama or easy answers. There are no bad guys, just two people getting to know one another better than they know themselves.

Paris, Texas (1984)

          Sam Shepard wasn't done with the screenplay when production started on the Palm D'or winning Paris, Texas. The story follows Travis, an amnesiac wanderer who is picked up by his brother and slowly comes to remember who he is and what he cherishes the most. The screenplay is about family and memory and love and anger and guilt and, in the end, nobody quite gets exactly what they want. This movie contains, what I think, is the best monologue ever written. Watch it.

Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989)

          Do our past actions define us, or are we defined by our promises of the future? What is guilt if it isn't our conscience trying desperately to define us as unworthy? Woody Allen's masterpiece, Crimes and Misdemeanors, addresses the big questions. What is true justice? In a world of murder and rape and disgust, what is true evil? Aren't all living things evil by default? Is there a spectrum of the crimes that we commit, or does everything we do rattle with equal significance? This film deals with guilt and anger and despair in a more mature and honest way than I have seen in any other film. A truly powerful piece of filmmaking.

Breaking the Waves (1996)

          Lars Von Trier has made a name for himself with his stories about women in dire circumstances. They often end tragically, and Breaking the Waves is no exception. However, unlike some of his later films, Breaking the Waves doesn't have some sort of film gimmick, like musical numbers or minimalist set design. No, this film is just pure story, pure writing, and it is devastating. Trier's recreation of the passion play is moving and tragic, but in its final moments, it is transcendent.

25th Hour (2002)

         
          David Benioff's 25th Hour is about post-9/11 New York. Of course, the plot surrounds Monty Brogan as he lives his final day before going to prison for felony drug trafficking, but this story is really about how America deals with difficult times. Monty is angry and frustrated that his life has ended up the way that it has, but he is also responsible. He got greedy, he took things that didn't belong to him, he made decisions, big decisions, for other people. He embraces everybody of every color and creed, but he doesn't love them equally. In fact, he equally despises them. Monty has dreams and ambitions that he'll never be able to achieve because of his charred past. He blew it, he knows it, and he's trying to pick up the pieces.

What are some of your favorite screenplays? 

Essential Viewing, Part 1: The Classics

         
            I've given a lot of thought recently to the films I would teach if I had control over a film studies department. What films are most indicative of greatness? What products stand out as the most innovative and original and important? The problem that some may have with academia is this idea that there are canonical works of art that all people must appreciate. You have James Joyce and William Shakespeare on one end of the spectrum, and then you've got Nicolas Sparks and Susanne Collins somewhere on the other end.

          What makes one side more important? What makes one end of the spectrum essential to literary studies? Of course it's subjective. What pleases me won't always please you. But we can certainly appreciate innovation and explosive creativity over formula. But, as happens so often in our culture, sometimes that formula is used so effectively that the product is every bit as good as that of the innovators'.

          Maybe I'm thinking too hard about this. Maybe I should just give it to you straight. If I were the head of a film studies program, these are the films I would require of my students. This is the first part of my Essential List, where I will be giving you some of the essential classics.
       

          What makes a classic movie a classic? I suppose it has to be old, perhaps made before 1960, and I suppose it has to be respected by critics and audiences. Moreover, a classic film needs to be innovative and timeless. Watching a classic film today needs to be every bit as riveting as it was at the time of its release (of course, this sometimes requires the context of the time to be understood by the viewer).  So, based on these criteria, here are some classic films that I would consider essential viewing for those who are interested in film studies.


The General (1926)

          Buster Keaton's The General is a marvel of filmmaking. Watching Keaton perform those stunts without any kind of safety is, in my opinion, even more impressive today than it was back in 1926. We no longer have Vaudeville acts in the city that perform these kinds of physically demanding stunts. Sure, there's Cirque Du Soleil, but there are still safety measures implemented into those routines. Keaton, when he runs up and down the train and narrowly escapes death, is doing it for real. He risked his life for his art and his comedy, and watching him on screen is endlessly fascinating. It's a tragedy that he died in poverty. He is one of the great early geniuses of cinema.


Metropolis (1927)

          This list isn't going to linger in the silent era for too long, but I do believe that this era has a lot to teach modern filmmakers. Now I'm not going to a rant about shaky-cam or formulaic action films, but I do think that the silent era, more than any other time, was completely devoted to the story of an image. The composition, the staging, the blocking of the actors--it is all so crucial in a silent film. I love how unbelievable Fritz Lang's world really is in his silent masterpiece Metropolis. I've not seen a single dystopian film that doesn't have some sort of nod to this film in its production design. Sure, the pacing is a bit wonky, and, yeah, the story is a bit silly by today's standards, but you don't see visuals like these very often. And when you do see them, they owe it all to Lang.


Grand Illusion (1937)

     
          Jean Renoir's The Rules of the Game is often credited as his masterpiece, but I've always been more partial to Grand Illusion. There's just something about a great prison break narrative that gets my gears grinding. What I like most about Renoir's film is its excellent use of silence. The film begins as a straightforward narrative about soldiers who are captured and imprisoned behind enemy lines, but as the film goes on, it becomes more and more evident that the film is a beautiful love letter to those who sacrificed their lives in the war. We realize that there is no true honor in war, and that there is no real escape.


Bicycle Thieves (1948)

       
          Where would we be without the Italian Neo-Realists? For starters, the French New Wave wouldn't have happened nearly as fast as it did. Robert Bresson wouldn't have had much of a career, seeing as how Bicycle Theives was his inspiration to get into the business (and also gave him the idea to use non-professional actors). Vittorio De Sica's classic tale of desperation, greed, and mercy is about as timeless as it gets. In post-war Italy, a man has finally been given a job by the state. He is ordered to buy a bike in order to do his job. His bike is stolen almost immediately, and so the man and his son go searching for the bike. That's it. You may not believe me, but Bicycle Thieves is one of the most emotionally devastating films I've ever seen. It is so raw, so personal, and so honest that I can hardly breathe when the man decides to take his fate into his own hands. It is a powerful film, and the fact that it started a filmmaking revolution is just icing on the cake.


Rear Window (1954)

          One of the most written-about films of all time sort of needs no introduction, but I'll do it anyway. Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window is one of the most suspenseful movies I've ever seen. It's also, you know, infinitely interesting in its study of gender relations and surveillance. The entire film is shot from the point-of-view of a man looking through a bay window, and, somehow, it works. This is the film that proves Hitchcock's brilliance as a filmmaker and a master of suspense, and there is no way I could leave this film out.

The Seventh Seal (1957)

          A knight returning from the crusades is challenged to a game of chess by the Grim Reaper himself in Ingmar Bergman's classic film. This film is probably most responsible for the reputation that foreign films had in the mid-twentieth century. It's dark, introspective, moody, atmospheric, deliberately paced, and its ending is both confusing and disheartening. In other words, The Seventh Seal is an Ingmar Bergman film. What classics list is complete without Ingmar Bergman on it?


Touch of Evil (1958)

          That brilliant opening shot, the groundbreaking sound design, the excellent performances, the strange and surreal narrative. Everything works here in Orson Welles' (yes, I said it) best film. Working in a genre that many feared dead and cliche, and working with material that many felt to be sloppy and too controversial, Welles took the "maverick director" approach to filmmaking and did whatever he wanted to do with his money to make the best film he could make. The cinematography here is ambitious and unbelievable. You've never seen a movie shot quite like this. After the film was completed, the studio re-cut much of the footage and released the film in a, as Orson Welles put it, castrated state. Years later, the studio released the film as it was originally intended. Scary, dark, strange, and perfect.

The 400 Blows (1959)

          Some may call Breathless the French New Wave film that started it all, but it isn't. Francios Truffaut's 400 Blows is a fascinating, daring, and remarkable film. It doesn't self-consciously use the jump-cut to make a statement about French youth, or use its formalistic rule-breaking to try and change the way we see cinema. Instead, Truffaut's film is rugged and individualistic. The style folds over its protagonist. The protagonist is the film. The editing, the hurried camera-work, the quick pacing. This is all a part of the character as he struggles to get attention, to break out, to become his own man. Antoine breaks the rules because he hates them. The rules have made him unremarkable, and he has a statement to make. The film's final, haunting image reminds us of the unknown future in front of all of. It's a spellbinding work of cinema.




There are plenty of other classics that I love and cherish, but I find these to be the most essential for a beginning film studies student. What am I missing from the classics (per my criteria)? 

Misinterpreted: Wild At Heart

          Roger Ebert, before he decided that he liked David Lynch after all upon the release of Mulholland Drive, found Wild At Heart to be a wildly unbalanced, tonally confusing, and offensively violent failure of a film. Ten years later, Ebert praised Inland Empire for the exact same thing. He called the latter a bold, ambitious vision that few directors can achieve. I'm glad that Ebert appreciates Inland Empire for all of its idiosyncrasies, but it feels unfair that Ebert would wait until Lynch is almost universally loved in the world of film criticism before he started giving the director the benefit of the doubt.

           In his reviews for ERASERHEAD, Blue Velvet, and Wild At Heart, Ebert criticizes the way Lynch's movies don't explain themselves. He acts as if Lynch has no big plan for his films, and that they are just random moments of style that amount to an empty experience. He criticized Blue Velvet for its sexuality, ERASERHEAD for its dense imagery, and Wild At Heart for its violence. He said it was a director pushing buttons for the sake of controversy, and that Lynch's films are full of hate.

           Not to sound dramatic, but there are people who believe that Huck Finn is a racist novel because there's racism in it. Just because something depicts cruel acts of humanity, this does not mean that that product endorses cruel acts.

           Yeah, Wild At Heart is violent. It begins with Sailor Ripley (Nicolas Cage) beating an African-American man to death in one of the most shockingly violent scenes I've ever seen. Sailor, our hero, committing such acts of violence so early in the film is indicative of the kind of journey Lynch is taking us on.

         
           Sailor is not a hero. He is young, impulsive, passionate, and free. He represents the dream of 1950's youth--the invincible, endlessly cool lover who will do anything "for [his] girl." He is Elvis and James Dean rolled into one. From his snakeskin jacket to his oiled hair, he is the epitome of style.

           In a sense, Sailor is the embodiment of what Ebert accused Lynch's films of being--good style, easy on the eyes, but, ultimately, empty. To call the characterization of Sailor broad-stroked and lacking of any subtlety is not a criticism, but an observation. His violence, his raw sexuality, his hatred--these are all elements used to describe an ideal. And, as the movie continues, the viewer should come to realize that the film does not like Sailor. The film wants Sailor to change, but he can't. How can he? He's an ideal. He isn't a real person.
       
          You could say that I'm reading the film this way because I love David Lynch. You're probably on to something. Once I commit to a filmmaker or painter or singer, I am fiercely committed to that artist and love what he or she does. However, with Wild At Heart, I think there's a good argument for my reading of the film.

         It becomes clear early on that the film is a loose (and I mean loose) adaptation of The Wizard Of Oz, complete with a good and bad witch and a road onto which the heroes must journey. Now, let's think about The Wizard of Oz for a second. What is Dorothy? Is she a character lovingly designed with subtlety and nuance? No, she's the ideal little girl. She is innocent and sweet and cannot stand when other people are hurt. Like Sailor, she is a representation of a dream. She must be read this way for us to invest in her story.

       Now look at Sailor. He is 1950's America (a subject Lynch never really seems to stray from), and he represents every ignorant, hateful, alienating aspect of the decade and what it represents. Lula Fortune (Laura Dern) is in love with his spirit. He is a go-getter, a fighter, a man who fully believes in his own convictions, and for the duration of the film, these convictions all center around her.

          Lula is the way people of Sailor's ideal view women. She is the pinup, the codependent, the passionate virgin looking for adventure. Her obsession with Sailor is poisonous. It infects her life and her relationship with the outside world. She very literally goes to the edge of the Earth to keep Sailor in love with her. You see that picture up there? Lula spends approximately 80% of the film in a position very similar to that one. Most of her dialogue is the exclamation "Sailor!" She is not a real person. She can't be. She is a type, just as Sailor is, and when Lynch puts both of these types into the same room, they explode.

        The rational world cannot handle these extreme examples of 1950's idealism. They are embroiled in a tragic romance not unlike Bonnie and Clyde, or the lovers in Terrence Malick's Badlands, or even Romeo and Juliet.

         What sets them apart from these other tragic love stories is that they are aware of their own story. From the earliest point, it becomes clear that Lula and Sailor are knowingly and willingly becoming entrenched in a tragic love affair. They are exhilarated by the knowledge of their own demise. Each time Sailor gets in a fight, or drives his car too fast and too dangerously, or lights up a cigarette, Lula smiles and screams with glee. Only true love can burn so bright. Only true life must be ejected from this world. Only true love can inspire the monsters to attack.

          As in The Wizard of Oz, the journey of the hero is tested. In the case of Wild At Heart, the hero is Sailor Ripley, and the journey is his path toward enlightenment. For Dorothy, her true test was a fight against the Wicked Witch--a woman who hates where she is from and what it represents. The witch represents, for Dorothy, the way that she may end up if she doesn't change her mind about her family and her home. She may end up alone in a tower, hating everything that's content.

         For Sailor, his Wicked Witch Bobby Peru (Willem Dafoe). Peru is the end result of what Sailor is slowly becoming. He is impulsive to a fault--exploding into violence at the smallest whim, and his sexuality is so strong that it is hostile. Peru is mean and closed-minded. He is a dark example of arrogance and brute strength. He knows what he wants and he gets it with God on his side. Sailor sees himself in the man. He knows that, if he doesn't watch out, he will become Bobby Peru.

        Wild At Heart is a fable. This is not one of David Lynch's complex dissections of the human identity. It is a morality a tale, a pretty straightforward one at that, and it uses its Wizard of Oz imagery to guide viewer in his/her understanding of it. The film is often considered a misfire, despite the fact that it won the Palm D'or at the Cannes Film Festival, because of its unusual tone and bizarre sense of humor, but I find it to be one of the director's most enduring and interesting films of his career.


        If you've never seen it, definitely give it a look. If you've seen it before and you are shaking your head at the lengths I will go for my fanboy passions, then you should watch it again. Perhaps you'll change your mind.

How do you feel about this movie? Let me know in the comments. 

Underrated: Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me

          If you've been following this blog for any reasonable amount of time, you should know by now that I adore the films of David Lynch. Of course, this should come as no surprise, as a film lover obsessing over David Lynch is about as common as finding somebody who watched Seinfeld in the '90's. Even though my love of David Lynch is nothing special, I would say that my love of Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me is definitely something that turns heads.

        This is because a lot of David Lynch fans are really only allowed to like a handful of his movies. These are the movies that get written about endlessly by critics for peer-reviewed journals. You know the ones: Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive, The Elephant Man, and, to a lesser extent, Lost Highway and Eraserhead. Blue Velvet is especially well-liked amongst cinephiles. College professors like to crowd around and discuss the many sexual and psychological implications behind the movie. They argue over the intentions behind the film's soundtrack's juxtaposed qualities, that final image of the robin's manufactured esthetic, the performances, etc. Blue Velvet was released at the perfect time for a lot of the more highly-regarded film academics working today. They were my age, as it were, and when you're my age, you are very easily won over by style, creative invention, and artistic risk. Blue Velvet had all of this.

         It was no surprise that Twin Peaks, the "David Lynch TV show," became a huge critical hit upon its release in 1990. It was strange, funny, scary, dramatic. The "Lynchian" qualities of the show, you know, those strange things that nobody can really define, were mostly marginalized for the viewer. Yes, BOB is really scary. Yes, the owls ARE watching, but most of these absurd elements are treated with a tongue-in-cheek tone.

        The show works well on multiple levels, as a satire of late 20th century soaps, a murder mystery, a character study, and so on. And when something so original, so married to a particular style, becomes overwhelmingly famous, there is always going to be a certain resentment from the artist. All of a sudden, David Lynch was in a box.

          The show became so popular with audiences that huge groups of fans lashed out against Lynch for not revealing Laura Palmer's killer during the first season finale (Sound familiar The Killing fans?). He was under a huge amount of pressure from the studio to solve the murder and appease his fans. But, honestly, does Lynch ever do anything to please his fans? Does the man who gave us this scene really like to make his audience feel good?

No.

          Lynch has gone on record as saying that revealing the killer (which I won't do here) was the worst thing that could have ever happened to the show. Even though, one could argue, that revelatory episode is one of the single greatest hours to ever broadcast on television.

         Lynch began to feel caged by his own sensibilities. The show was a runaway hit, and the fans had expectations that Lynch could not meet. His films always focus on the ambiguities of life, on the nonexistence of true identity, on the evil and the good that war within us. He is not so much focused on following expectation.

        To confirm my point, I would like for you to see his output. One G-rated disney film. One huge-budget sci-fi adaptation. One biopic. Several undefinables. A 16-minute Lady Dior commercial. A music album.

       He left the show halfway through the second season to work on another project. That project would eventually turn into the Palm D'or winning film Wild At Heart. Another David Lynch film that is remarkably underrated (more on that next week).

      And, after a prolonged (and mostly rambling) second season, Twin Peaks left the air-ways with a finale that raised more questions than answers. Viewers were, once again, pissed at a show that continued to subvert expectations and take true risks. You know, those qualities that made the show so successful to begin with.

     The fans were so vocal about their complaints that David Lynch was able to fund a film set in the Twin Peaks universe. "Hooray!" the fans said in rejoice. "We finally get to know what was going on with Dale Cooper at the end of that finale!"

      Wrong again. Dale Cooper has a cameo in the film.

As does David Bowie!

          The film takes place during the week of Laura Palmer's murder. For the film, Lynch injected a bucket-load more of surrealism into the mix and removed much of the show's tongue-in-cheek humor. And, since there is almost no Dale Cooper, the film is mostly anchored by a performance from Sheryl Lee, who does all she can to hold the film together with her limited acting experience.

         Fire Walk With Me is a mean film. There are no more playful scenes between the characters, no more quirky, funny one-liners from zany small-town folks. In fact, this is probably Lynch's darkest, most atmospheric effort of his entire career (including Inland Empire, let us not forget "The Locomotion"). The surrealistic qualities of the film lend it an otherworldly feeling. Everybody seems to be in on something that the audience never fully understands. The Black Lodge has much more significance in the film, and its use is absolutely puzzling for those who have not recently (or ever) watched the show.

          Allegedly, there is enough footage of the film for Lynch to release a second part, but he prefers the jagged edges of the finished product. He prefers its truncated scenes and frustrating need to keep things from its viewer. And, honestly, so do I. The film has a certain power to it.

          From the moment Chris Isaak and Keifer Sutherland become surprise protagonists to the moment where the photograph of the door reveals itself within the plot, I am hooked on this movie. I am constantly amazed by its artistic risk. For a film based on a beloved franchise with a huge built-in audience, Fire Walk With Me is definitely a financial and artistic risk.

          But perhaps the word risk is giving Lynch's intentions too much credit. The word risk implies that financial success was possible. No, this film bombed. It was strange, scary, dark, violent, ambiguous, and mean. There is a violence in this movie that cannot be controlled.

          To go into exactly why this movie is so scary is to give away the identity of the killer, but let's just say this movie goes places you rarely see in any movie, let alone a movie based on a popular television show.

       Maybe Fire Walk With Me is a tad disjointed. Perhaps the performances are a little stilted. And, yes, maybe the movie is a little too weird. But I am in love with it. I am in love with the integrity Lynch brings to the product. I am in awe of the way he subverts expectations, and I cannot possibly imagine a more fitting way for Lynch to leave the series behind.


[Note: Strangely enough, this movie is hugely popular in Japan. I don't even...]

Underrated: Rampart

          The other cops call him Date Rape Brown. This is not because he has committed an act of date rape (though, I'm not sure if we can rule that out), but because Dave Brown, in the late eighties, killed a serial date rapist in cold blood on the streets of Los Angeles. Now it's 1999, and Officer Brown's guilt and rage and hate have reached their boiling points.

         Dave Brown is a dirty cop. He plants evidence, acts on hunches, brutalizes suspects, and behaves in an openly racist way when arresting people of color. His family hates him, especially his older daughter (played by Brie Larson, who in theaters with right now with the totally opposite cop movie 21 Jump Street), who is a lesbian that is constantly under scrutiny from her homophobic father.
       
        Oren Moverman's Rampart opens and closes with an extreme close-up of its star. Woody Harrelson's skin is tight over his face. He has no body fat. His eyes seem to pop out of his head. The movie works because of Harrelson. He plays Dave with an inner rage that few actors can duplicate. The close-ups of Harrelson smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol are grotesque. The camera is so close that it stretches and contorts the image. Moverman's camera makes Dave Brown a monster within the first few seconds of the film. And, for the next two hours, Dave only proves what the images try to convey.

       He is the kind of monster that audiences do not get to see very often. Charlize Theron's Mavis Gary in Young Adult is of similar monstrosity, with her completely skewed image of herself coupled with a frightening narcissism, but Dave Brown is in a much more dangerous position. Unlike Mavis, who mostly just sits around by herself and manipulates others through means of technology, Dave is a police officer who spends his day searching for people to hurt.

       
          The film is bold in its presentation of the protagonist. There is never a moment that makes us care for Dave. However, there are moments that make us sympathize. When Dave is near his daughters, he tries to tone down his personality, leaving us with something of a normal person. However, the more time we see him spend with his daughters, the more we see of his dangerous parenting. His daughters are not fazed by the image of their father passed out drunk, naked, on his bedroom floor. They do not jump when he starts to scream and kick. They wait for him to finish.

        Moverman's previous film, The Messenger (2009), dealt with a similarly disengaged protagonist. In that film, Moverman centered on an Iraq War veteran who is given the "Messenger Detail." We see a man who has trouble empathizing with the dead slowly implode because of the living. Woody Harrelson plays the protagonist's Captain in a stoic and ultimately devastating performance (a performance that earned Harrelson an Academy Award nomination).

       In Rampart, it is Harrelson's turn to implode. His performance in the film is staggering in its complexity. There is one particularly moving scene near the end of the film where Dave has an uncharacteristic moment of regret. In this scene, we see the guilt that has been haunting his character since he came back from the Vietnam War and became a cop. We see the weight that perpetual rage and violence can be on a man. We see a man truly ashamed of himself, and it is this moment that makes the film complete.

       Moverman is a relatively new director, but his writing extends as far back as 1999's Jesus' Son. His writing is honest and brutal, and it often portrays men who are lost within themselves and trying to find a way out. He writes about men who have a violence inside of them, often a violence carried over from war, and sometimes that violence erupts in terrifying ways. Moverman's real gift is in the balance he finds within the men he writes about. Dave Brown could have been a caricature in the wrong hands, but here he is not so much a monster as he is a tragic figure. He is a product of his father, of his time, of his war, and of his surroundings.


Rampart gets 8/10 empty lighters


[Note: While I didn't mention it in the review, I also want to praise Ben Foster's cameo appearance as a handicapped meth addict, which is one of the most revelatory performances I've seen in such a short amount of screen time. Seriously, make this guy a star -- he is one of the finest actors of his generation]





     

Underrated: Shotgun Stories

       
          The brothers are named Son, Boy and Kid. These are their legal names. Their father, a drunk who changed his ways grew a conscience, left his three sons and started a new family after his metamorphosis. They grew up fending for themselves in a rural Arkansas town. Son, the oldest (played by the always brilliant Michael Shannon), is a fisherman. He is quiet and filled with fury. Boy, the middle child, coaches middle school basketball and lives in his van. He has no fight left in him after a troubled adolescence. Kid, the youngest, is a mechanic for Kia Motors and looking for a raise. He's loud and belligerent and ready to fight anybody who opposes the brothers.

        We see their lives as simple and desperate. The brothers have no money, no direction, no ambition. Son lives in a shotgun shack beside a wild field that used to harvest the family's farm. His house is the only semblance of what used to be a successful, happy family.

       The film, written and directed by Take Shelter's Jeff Nichols, begins with the brothers learning that their father has died, and that the funeral is taking place tomorrow. When the brothers arrive at the funeral, we find out that the other family -- the half brothers -- are affluent and proud. They love their father and everything he stood for. Son can't handle this fact. He is suffocated by the idea that his father may have been a good man. That a good man may have left his three boys behind in order to make a new life, as if his own children were the evidence of a misdeed.

      Son decides he's got something to say at the funeral. He tells the congregation that his father was an evil man. That he left his family all alone to fend for themselves. Son spits on his father's coffin. This starts a war between the families.

          Like he does in Take Shelter, Nichols relies heavily on the silent intensity of Shannon's presence. He is truly amazing, here. Everything he does feels calculated, precise. His anger is revealed only in short bursts, punctuating his otherwise calm temperament.

         The film is a parable. The police don't exist. The town is a vacuum where all that matters is the war between the families. Shotgun Stories is reminiscent of David Gordon Green (who serves as a producer)'s early films, such as George Washington or Snow Angels. The narrative is episodic and focused primarily on the rural life of a community. The characters are intelligent without ambition. Sometimes it's hard not to see them as bums, but the closer we get to them, the more we can sympathize with how simply they live.

         Shotgun Stories is a surprising success. Its deliberate pacing and episodic nature mirror that of an Ingmar Bergman chamber drama. The writing is king, whereas the visuals only seem to serve as vehicles for dialogue. It's an interesting film that is, for some reason, never really talked about. Hopefully the success of Take Shelter will increase the demand for what I find to be one of the most interesting films I've seen in quite some time.

I give Shotgun Stories an 8 out 10 wet coffins.

If I Ruled the World: My Picks of the Year

I think you meant Carey Mulligan...

          Yes, it's the week of Oscar nominees and Oscar gripes. Nobody got what they deserved (besides Moneyball and Rooney Mara) and, yes, it's all political and self-congratulatory. What did we expect? This is the 84th time we've gotten nominations. After 84 times of being burned, who should we even be mad at? If film awards were really for the most artistically daring and skillfully presented works, what would this year really look like?

        Well, have no fear. I'm taking this awards season into my own hands. These are the real winners, here (In my opinion, obviously.) I ain't got the politics. 

       Also, before we start, I should note that I have not yet seen The Artist, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, A Separation, Shame, and Albert Nobbs. 

Let's get this show on the road. 

Best Female Supporting Performance

          

          Jessica Chastain has had an incredible year in film. She was the embodiment of grace in Terrence Malick's Tree of Life, a woman trying her best to be the embodiment of grace in The Help, and the best supporting performance of the year in Take Shelter. While Chastain's many performances could have all ended up on this list, I choose Take Shelter for its high demands. Chastain had to act against the mighty tower of superhuman skill that is Michael Shannon. And she completely stole the show. Her performance is powerful and honest, and by far the best supporting performance of the year. 

Other Nominees:

Charlotte Gainsbourg in Melancholia

Carey Mulligan in Drive

Shailene Woodley in The Descendants

Chloe Moretz in Hugo

Best Male Supporting Performance

          John Hawkes terrified audiences everywhere in last year's Winter's Bone, and I was eager to see what came next. And boy, did he deliver. Hawkes is mesmerizing in Martha Marcy May Marlene. I believe everything he says as if I'm one of his devotees in the film's cult. Hawkes is one of those rare performers that can say everything he needs to say with a look. Here's hoping he continues down this line of terrific script choices. 

Other Nominees: 

Patton Oswalt in Young Adult

Jonah Hill in Moneyball

Albert Brooks in Drive

Ryan Gosling in Crazy Stupid Love

Best Screenplay

          Say what you will about Diablo Cody's other endeavors, Juno and Jennifer's Body. Talk about her sentimentality, or her reluctance to break free of a certain style over substance, or her "quirky" dialogue. But when you see Young Adult, I promise that you will be blown away. This is some of the most mature and confident writing I've seen in a very long time. Cody's film, inexplicably marketed as a comedy, is one of the saddest movies I have ever seen in my life. Stripped from the screenplay is any of the charm, the quirk, the smugness of her previous work. All we are left with is a lonely, depressed alcoholic trying to come to terms with her meaninglessness. The work is dark, haunting, melancholy, and excellent. One of the best screenplays in a long time. And absolutely what Sofia Coppola wishes she could do, but clearly can't. 

Other Nominees: 

Aaron Sorkin and Steve Zaillian, Moneyball

Sean Durkin, Martha Marcy May Marlene

Lars Von Trier, Melancholia

Jeff Nichols, Take Shelter

Dan Fogelman, Crazy Stupid Love

Best Cinematography

         

          Call it boring, pretentious, endless, rambling, or silly. On some days I'd agree with you. But take one look at any frame of this fantastic film, and you'll see that Emmanuel Lubezki's work in The Tree of Life is nothing short of miraculous. This is the most beautiful movie I have ever seen. Any screenshot of this movie could be framed on my wall as a perfect piece of art. Seeing this movie in the theater was one of the greatest movie experiences of my life, if only for those amazing creation shots. 

Other Nominees:

Manuel Alberto Caro, Melancholia

Jody Lee Lipes, Martha Marcy May Marlene

Janusz Kaminski, The Adventures of TinTin

Newton Thomas Sigel, Drive

Wally Pfister, Moneyball

Bob Richardson, Hugo

Alwin H. Kuchler, Hanna

Best Leading Female Performance

          Kirsten Dunst blew me away in Lars Von Trier's elegant, devastating Melancholia. Every second with her on screen is electric, dynamic, fascinating. Dunst, who I've never really thought much of as an actor before this film, has officially solidified herself as one of my favorites. With just one movie. She's that good, here. Dunst takes great material and makes it excellent. I love her performance in this movie. 

Other Nominees: 

Elizabeth Olsen in Martha Marcy May Marlene

Rooney Mara in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Charlize Theron in Young Adult

Viola Davis in The Help

Best Leading Male Performance 

         

           Michael Shannon's performance in Take Shelter is not only my favorite performance, of any kind, all year, but it is one of my favorite performances of all time. He is so convincing, so scary, so effortlessly terrifying in this role that I will have a hard time seeing him as anything else. Shannon works with his eyes, his body language, and silence to craft an intense and emotional performance that is unlike anything I have ever seen. Go see this movie. Now. Michael Shannon is unbelievable. 

Other Nominees:

Ryan Gosling in Drive

Brad Pitt in Moneyball

George Clooney in The Descendants

Asa Butterfield in Hugo

Best Director

          Nicolas Winding Refn had already made a name for himself with Bronson, the Pusher trilogy, and Valhalla Rising before his outstanding Drive, but nothing could have prepared me for what he did with the film. The material itself is quite barebones and minimalistic -- the screenplay based on a novella of the same name that consists mostly of interior monologue. But Reft, after meeting with Ryan Gosling and listing to REO Speedwagon, found a way to make the film something more. With impressionistic cinematography, long takes of silence punctuated by unspeakable violence, and performances from some of the best actors working today, Refn turned Drive into the must see movie of the year. The style, the performances, the soundtrack, the story. Everything works, here. And it's because of Refn's skill as a filmmaker that it all came together so well. 

Other Nominees:

Lars Von Trier, Melancholia

Sean Durkin, Martha Marcy May Marlene

Steven Spielberg, The Adventures of TinTin

Kelly Reichardt, Meek's Cutoff

Martin Scorsese, Hugo

Bennett Miller, Moneyball

Joe Wright, Hanna

Best Film of the Year

          Despite his insistence that he's a Naze. Despite his inability to have a charming persona in public, Lars Von Trier really is one of the great living directors. Dancer in the Dark, Breaking the Waves, Antichrist, Dogville, and Europa are all masterpieces. And then, even further up the spectrum, there is Melancholia. This is the movie Trier has been trying to make for over twenty years, and he has finally done it. It has his dark humor, his knack for pulling incredible performances from his female stars, his gorgeous cinematography, his ever-present need for some kind of gimmick (another planet in the sky!), and signs of his devastating depression. Melancholia is a near-perfect movie. The best film of the year. 

Other Nominees: 

Drive

Young Adult 

Moneyball

The Tree of Life

Martha Marcy May Marlene

Take Shelter

The Adventures of TinTin

Hugo

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

The Descendants

Crazy Stupid Love

Insidious 

Hanna

Who are some of your picks for the year? Let me know in the comments or on Facebook!