Dog Day Afternoon

Few other directors are as adept as Sidney Lumet at tailoring their style to the unique qualities of a story. Kubrick, Scorsese, Spielberg, the Coens - many of the greatest directors of all time have a style to their films that make them all but unmistakable. Lumet's distinction lies in his ability to adapt to the material. Dog Day Afternoon is a great example of this. Taking into account the fact that he was working with a story based on real events Lumet employed a relatively slow pacing - approximating the feel of real time - and - with the exception of the opening sequence - chose to do without a musical score. Of course, those are just two of several considerations made with the goal of realism in mind.

Despite these commitments to realism Dog Day Afternoon manages to touch on many of the pressing social issues of 1970's America. In fact, it is because of this commitment to realism that the film achieves such a deeply insightful portrait of that time in our history. The characters' lives are faithful manifestations of a society challenged by Vietnam, myriad misuses and abuses of authority, women's lib, and gay rights - to name a few. I never felt as if I was being preached to. No one issue was singled out as the source of conflict.

In my opinion, when it comes to storytelling, the "ends" cannot justify the "means." It just doesn't work that way. The "means" are EVERYTHING. In this respect, Dog Day Afternoon is cinematic storytelling at its best.

Saturday Night Fever

I had spent most of the semester preparing myself to be open minded about this screening. Generally speaking, I am no fan of disco. I am - however - a music fan and - as a music fan - I have done a lot of thinking about what it means to really like a certain piece of music. Among the many, many reasons that I might list for why I like the music that I like, whether or not it moves me to dance would rank rather low in the order of important criteria. However, I have learned to recognize the importance of "danceability" in an objective evaluation of a given song, and so an objective theory about why people like music in general must allow for some explanation for why people dance. Aside from the various social issues that may either inhibit or promote the impetus for dance there must be something about the nature of music that facilitates a corresponding behavior. By way of this hopelessly muddled discourse I have managed to determine for myself that any song which moves a person to dance - whether or not I myself share that motivation - is worthy of my honest appreciation. I may not like a song enough to dance to it, but if someone else does then there must be something to it. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I sat down to watch Saturday Night Fever with an open mind.

I'm not sure what I expected from Saturday Night Fever. The film has more or less been a distant blip on my radar for most of my life. It is impossible to hear the song "Stayin' Alive" without obvious associations. I suppose I expected not much more than the brothers Gibb. Of course, other images which have been widely stamped on the public consciousness include John Travolta's strut and a multicolored, light-up dance floor. All of this seemed rather thin fare for someone with a professional interest in filmmaking as a serious storytelling medium.

But what's this?? There are characters here... no... not just characters... maybe the most unique characters we have seen this semester - true blue collar folk - brimming with passion - full of life - certainly among the most charmingly stupid bunch of people ever committed to film. The plot may be needlessly over dramatic, but at least the characters are interesting. We ought to recognize the filmmakers' challenge in tacking characters that are so easy to dislike - people so reminiscent of my least favorite classmates from high school.

I can't help empathizing with Tony Manero (John Travolta). We get just enough insight into Tony's environment and upbringing that his unforgivably infuriating behavior feels poignantly frustrating and his hopelessly vapid behavior feels surprisingly endearing. As much as I dread the idea of a disco club I can actually share in Tony's glory on the dance floor. That glory is one of Tony's few hopes for the future - and thank goodness he is beginning to recognize the need for changing the present course of his life. Each time Tony sidesteps Annette's sexual advances - how easy it would have been for him to take advantage - I am heartened by his continued divergence from the downward spiral that grips his peers. Essentially, Saturday Night Fever is a coming of age story set in a world where everyone gets older but too few people ever manage to grow up. I am glad that I approached it with an open mind because - and I can't believe I'm saying this - here is a movie with the potential to enrich the mind - if you can manage to slog through the heaping mounds of pop culture induced misconceptions. Few films are so subtly clever.

Shaft

On one hand Shaft was everything that I expected, with respect to the fact that the film was very entertaining despite certain questionable production values. On the other hand, Shaft offers a great deal more than I expected. These are extremely interesting characters - caricatures perhaps - but nonetheless, fully fleshed and true to themselves. Another way to put it: these characters do things that are delightfully surprising yet make complete sense within the alternate reality that is Shaft. Perhaps the best example of what I am talking about is the scene in which John Shaft sits down for his first face to face meeting with Bumpy Jonas. I think few people expect Bumpy - who has already sent two of this thugs to manhandle our hero - to be so accommodating and eventually breakdown and cry. However, the behavior rings true once we discover Bumpy's genuine, paternal concern for his kidnapped daughter.

Taxi Driver

Among my favorite things about most of Martin Scorsese's movies is the way that he handles extraordinarily violent characters. Teddy Daniels (Shutter Island); Billy Costigan (The Departed); Amsterdam Vallon (Gangs of New York); Max Cady (Cape Fear); Henry Hill (Goodfellas); Jake La Motta (Raging Bull); and of course, Travis Bickle (Taxi Driver) are just a few of his shockingly violent "heroes." There are so many that - I would argue - Scorsese must have committed himself to characters of this nature, from the earliest stages of his career, with the expressed purpose of presenting them in a specific way. Many of these characters have a profoundly tragic story. Their tragedy is usually brought about by their violent behavior, and in the end few of them are made to realize responsibility for their own behavior. If I hazard overgeneralizing with these characters I would still go so far as to say that - despite so many obvious flaws - we are meant to empathize with all of them.

I am left with a number of questions about what all of this means. What do these characters' lives actual mean to us? Is there more to it than simply sympathizing with their tragic situations? Are we supposed to take away some kind of insight into our own nature? Are these stories meant to shake us out of our easy faith in the relative safety of our world? Part of me says that, because conflict is entertaining these guys are a sure bet, but isn't there more to it than that? One possibility that I find particularly attractive is that Scorsese wants us to realize that villains - as they are found in so much of traditional story telling - do not actual exist in the real world.

Jaws

The long and short of it is this: Steven Spielberg knows how to thrill us. When we discuss a director's ability to control mise en scene there are any number of things that this could mean. There are no rules about how it is supposed to work, so long as the movie achieves the desired effect. The incomparable mise en scene of the movie Jaws achieves a rather groundbreaking effect - one which is particularly appropriate to our class's discussion of the blockbuster. Few films manage to temper such absurdity in order to generate so much fear. Through camera direction, production design, sound, and music every beat of this movie toys with our sense of security - and if it occasionally takes its foot off the gas, the audience is advised to adjust their grips and hold on tighter. Could I get any cheesier?? Nevertheless, we are being manipulated with every second.

My favorite scene might be the Kintner attack. On the surface and out of context the scene might seem rather pleasant, but because we share in Chief Brody's knowledge of the first shark attack the scene's glossy exterior only amplifies the creep factor. For the majority of the scene Spielberg strips away artifices like music and plays up diegetic sounds, giving us a sense of Brody's heightened awareness. Then the whole scene climaxes with a masterfully employed "Vertigo" shot (the oft abused simultaneous dolly in and zoom out that Hitchcock made famous). This scene may well be the key to the whole film. It primes us for the rather unique experience of terror in broad daylight and plants the seed for Chief Brody's journey as a dynamic, heroic character.

The Conversation

What an astounding personal achievement for Francis Ford Coppola. On top of all of the accomplishments which are inherent to writing and directing a feature film I would call special attention to the professional struggles - which were unique to Coppola's time and place within 1970's Hollywood - and also - perhaps more importantly - to the rigors of conjuring up such an intensely personal work of art. For these reasons, it is easy for me to see why The Conversation is Francis Ford Coppola's favorite piece of work.

As we know from the reading, Coppola's company American Zoetrope was under immense pressure from Warners, in the wake of THX 1138's commercial failure. Concerned about his future ability to make the films that he was passionate about, Coppola reluctantly accepted the offer to direct The Godfather; but even before that film became the enormous success that would make the rest of his career possible, Coppola was already making plans for The Conversation. I can hardly imagine the emotional struggles he must have gone through - using the system - being used by the system - all in pursuit of his goal. I have to admire his faith in his vision, and even then - after finally securing the means of production - he succeeded in turning that vision inward, for self expression.

The Conversation's protagonist, Harry Caul, strikes me as Coppola's most personal character. In other words, there is a great deal of Coppola in Caul. This is evidenced by certain characteristics and anecdotes lifted directly from Coppola's own life, such as the dream sequence where Harry confesses a string of personal curiosities. However, I would argue that the true depth of Coppola's self expression extends to the relatively subtle emotional landscape of Harry Caul's moment to moment manifestation of Coppola's vision. Among the most poignant examples of this is Harry's embarrassment when he realizes that a rival "bug man" has secretly taped him at the post-convention party. I cannot help but wonder what true-to-life event might have inspired this particular twist in Harry Caul's journey. In the very least, we ought to recognize Coppola's willingness and ability to engage such an honest an sympathetic character portrait.

The Coppola Interview (reading)

This is a great interview for anyone interested in screenwriting or directing. If nothing else, Coppola offers some comfort to the artist who, during sustained periods of dedication to one project, discovers a distaste for their own work. I often wonder how many great works of art have been miscarried by an artist who gave up in the face of self doubt. Coppola recognizes the importance of plugging along despite the loss of understanding or even appreciation of the work at hand. Few people would guess that Coppola would associate The Godfather with failure; not because of the end product but because of the experience of that film's creation. I also appreciated the personal importance that he places on his indefinitely gestating "Megalopolis" script. I am sure that it is an effective tool in staging off complacency and maintaining hope for future work. As a writer I sometimes feel frozen by even the slightest doubt about my ideas and imagine that having something like Megalopolis up one's sleeve might help in freeing up inhibitions concerning "lesser" projects. It was also interesting to read a little bit about Coppola's strategies for working with actors, particularly in preproduction. I have achieved a practical understanding of the importance of back story, especially with respect to fully fleshed characters, but Coppola's method of rehearsing scenes from the back story seems truly inspired.