Month: March 2020

As a fan of blockbusters, I like to watch a lot of stuff crumble. Buildings are the most common occurrence, probably followed by spaceships, and every now and then it’ll happen to a planet (or even a timeline!)

But among my favorite things to crumble are the heroes.

Fat Thor in Avengers: Endgame is among my favorite examples of this. Seeing a god succumb to human problems like alcoholism and weight gain was a bit jarring at first, but it was eventually endearing.

Another favorite example is Batman in Batman V Superman.

One scene in particular.

It’s a scene that’s been under a great deal of scrutiny (though not great scrutiny) and has been the butt of plenty of jokes made about it (some funny, most not).

Since I’m assuming you read the article’s title or at least clicked on the previous link, I’ll assume you know the scene being referred to and I’ll stop wasting time.

Toxic Batmasculinity

An insecure billionaire who thinks he has nothing to lose is not someone whose way you want to get in. Since that fateful night when the Waynes went to see Zorro, he’s seen so much over all these years that we shouldn’t be surprised he’s lost his way.

We don’t have to be happy about it, and we don’t have to approve of it. But we shouldn’t be surprised that this old, jaded Bruce gives a death sentence to a human trafficker in his first scene in the cowl.

And we especially shouldn’t be surprised that the scene that follows up his iconic origin is mankind being introduced to the Superman, where he watches Metropolis being decimated by two gods duking it out. 

That last structural decision is a significant one. Ever since the movie was announced in 2013, “too soon” criticisms permiated the discussion of the movie. It’s too soon after Christian Bale to bring in a new Batman, it’s too soon in the careers of these actors to have an iconic battle like Batman Vs. Superman, and it’s too soon in the career of the new Batman to have him at an old age.

There’s little to really say about the first criticism, but the last criticism (which is correlated with the second) seems to miss what the film is going for.

The film is, in a sense, an origin story.

Origin Through Reflection 

It doesn’t do this in the exact same way Batman Begins did, with that film showing how he got the suit and so on. From a technological and formal standpoint, Affleck’s older caped crusader is as Batman as he’ll ever get. He’s got the tech, he’s got the bats, he’s got a scene that’s shot as though he’s the demon in a modern haunted house movie (good modern horror; less Jeff Wadlow and more James Wan).

Instead, the overlap between BvS and Begins, what makes them both origin stories, is their discoveries on why Batman became Batman. It’s just that BvS is a rediscovery.

Begins shows this reflection near the beginning, BvS reflects on this when he thinks this is the end. Bale’s Bruce reflects on this after he fails to kill Joe Chill, the common criminal who happened to take his parents, and Affleck’s reflects on it as he’s about to slay a god. As he’s about to do what may be the only thing he does that matters.

This is where the significance of the structure of the opening scenes comes in, as well as the genuine significance of the Martha scene. Bruce’s catharsis is not found in “our Moms have the same name, now we’re buddies.”

It’s the fact that as he’s about to kill a god, as he’s about to do the only thing that matters in honor of the death of his parents, he’s told the opposite.

He’s told he is failing them.

Because Bruce doesn’t know that Clark is talking about Martha Kent, what would have been the subtext hits him as the text, and the basic text of Clark’s words is lost on him. Hearing those five words, especially the last one, especially the last words of his father and the name of the mother he’s failing, right as he’s about to achieve his “greatest accomplishment”, all this disorients him. It breaks him. The would-be godkiller is told he’s failing the parents he thought he was honoring, and he begins to crumble.

He fights the beginnings of this crumbling with rage, as he’s taught himself to do over the years. And when he learns what Clark really meant, that a woman’s life is in danger, he falls apart. Bruce is about to kill to honor Martha, and he’s stopped by someone saying “I don’t care if you kill me, just save Martha.”

He can’t give into his rage. Clark is just a guy desperate to save his Mom the way Bruce was as a little boy.

It’s not here that Bruce effectively turns around; it’s the end of the film. Seeing Clark express indifference to his own life when his loved one is at stake, is what crumbles the pessimistic Bruce and unearths the original, hopeful foundation.

Seeing Clark actually give his life when the world is at stake rebuilds that foundation.

It’s through Clark that he learns men are still good, that we can rebuild, that we can do better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spoilers Herein

I’ve seen some people make certain accusations about Aster’s thoughts on Dani in Midsommar. These critics seem to be under the impression that Aster is sees Dani’s (Florence Pugh) emotional state in the movie as annoying, that he’s ableist in his representation of her mental state, that she’s evil, among other things.

I’ve also seen people celebrate Dani at the end. She killed her jerk of a boyfriend. All is well. Yay.

I can’t make an all-encompassing dismissal of the criticisms of ableism or misogyny in the movie. I can’t do the latter because it’s not my place, and I can’t do the former because, given the opening scene, I’m not convinced an all-encompassing dismissal is possible. (I do think the death of Dani’s family has a certain dramatic significance that can’t be dismissed, but it’s still unquestionably….iffy territory).

That said, while I can’t dismiss those criticisms, I can make a defense for Dani, and I can defend her while saying that the ending is not a happy one. For my money, Dani is the closest thing to a decent person in the entirety of Midsommar’s main players. I don’t see this as a personal interpretation on my part, but something that Aster is acutely aware of, and has designed the movie as a tragedy because of it.

Midsommar is ultimately aligned with Dani’s initial worldview, and by the time her boyfriend Christian (Jack Reynor) comes around to it, it’s too late; she’s become aligned with his.

Bad Romance

Christian and Dani’s relationship isn’t the best. They’re clearly on their way out. Christian is an emotionally numb douchebag who can’t handle Dani’s emotional state (not a knock against Dani, as you’ll see). He seems to care about her, but for the most part it’s only so far as his selfish wants allow, so he’s either telling her to shut up or being nice so he doesn’t have to.

On the one hand, I don’t necessarily blame Christian for wanting to be out of the relationship, and I don’t blame him for staying. His reasons for not being happy are kind of douchey, but Dani is clearly aware that he wants to leave. But on the other side of the “telling her to shut up” coin is the after mentioned motives of his “being nice”, which gives Dani mixed signals about his desire to break up.

Given this confusion, Christian should ultimately be clear and do what he really wants. Not because “oh man, girls are too emotional, get out of there man”, but because his confusing selfishness is just making things worse. Dude should stop making things confusing and just break up with her. Even if it’s for douchey reasons, at least they’ll be better off.

At the same time, Dani’s in a traumatic state at the beginning of the movie (Dani’s sister kills their parents and then commits suicide), so there’s a semblance of decency in his commitment to the relationship. He’s serving as an obligatory shoulder to cry on, which calls back to his motives for “being nice.”

But Christian’s relatively casual douchebaggery evolves into something worse.

The Beginning of the Dividing Line

One of the most important scenes in Midsommar occurs after a ritualistic senicide performed by the Harga (the cult Dani,  Christian and his pals are visiting). During the ritual we see that the decent people, Dani and another visiting couple named Simon and Connie, are horrified and want to leave.

There’s a moment when we think Christian is one of the decent people. Soon after the ritual, he confronts his friend Josh, starting the conversation by saying “I’ve been thinking about something I wanted to ask you, or tell you, actually.” 

Given how close in proximity this conversation is to the deaths they just witnessed, and the intensity of the assertion when he says “tell you“, we’re clearly set up to think he wants to leave immediately and get his mourning girlfriend away this evil cult. 

Instead, he tells Josh that he’s doing his thesis on the Harga.

You see, Josh was doing his thesis on the Harga.

But now Christian wants to take his thesis idea, which leads to an argument.

About a college paper.

After they just watched two people jump off a cliff. (The last of the two was finished off with a big, Looney Tunes-esque hammer. Despite the weapon being comparable to a cartoon, the violence was not).

Yes, Christian is a bigger douchebag for stealing his friend’s thesis.

But let’s please get one clear. Pardon my French, but the thesis doesn’t fucking matter.

They’re two men arguing about who gets to do a college paper about a murderous cult. Mind you, they’re not doing their research in the library, they are in the presence of the murderous cult they’re doing the paper about. They’re also not doing this to bring light to horrific events or inform the authorities. We learn later that, at the request of the cult, they’re a-okay with keeping their sources anonymous!

So while the decent people are horrified by the murder and want to leave, the douchebags (Christian, his friends, and the cult) are content with the murder and content with staying.

This similarity is crucial. They don’t care if people are being murdered, because their primary concern is their paper. Death is okay if it serves a selfish want.

Christian’s indifference and selfishness is compounded by his relationship with Dani. Even if he himself doesn’t care about the ritualistic murder going on, he should at least acknowledge that this just might bother his girlfriend who’s going through a traumatic experience. But he doesn’t. He’s got a paper to write, so Dani should just get over it.

This is what Dani is stuck between; murderers, and people selfishly indifferent to their murder.

Comfortable with Discomfort 

As the movie progresses, things become more and more unsettling. Josh is murdered, and in the presence of a half naked man wearing Mark’s face, no less. Dani and Christian are not specifically aware of either slaying, but they are aware that their friends haven’t been seen.

As Dani tries to bring this up with Christian, he again writes all of this off. She’s worried about his crappy friends, he cares about his thesis. She’s worried about the couple that went missing, he cares about his thesis.

But amidst all of this, Dani is finding herself relatively at home with the Harga’s less gruesome customs. She’s making pies, taking part in a traditional dance, all that jazz. Her interest in these customs is genuine, and she takes delight in the non-murderous parts.

But as she’s taking delight in the non-murderous parts, Christian is being drugged so he can eventually be raped.

Dani doesn’t know this. They let her think he’s cheating, and when she starts to sob over this, they partake in her tears.

When this sobbing was played in the trailer, it was accompanied by a shot of someone looking through a keyhole. Given the hype of horror surrounding the film, I expected this sobbing to be the result of some sort of…I don’t know, people being horribly tortured or something.

But the actual scene, despite not having any blood, guts or people in physical agony, is more horrifying than anything I could have anticipated. Genuine emotion is being turned into a rhythmic, almost ritualistic exercise, to say nothing of the person going through the trauma being lied to precisely so she can be traumatized. They want Dani on their side, and what better way than to be the shoulder to cry on she’s always wanted?

The Change Up

After Christian’s assault, the cult drugs him even further, essentially turning him into a vegetable. With Dani being their new May Queen, she’s the one who is to make a key choice regarding one last ritual; in a final sacrifice, she needs to choose the last person to be sacrificed. Among these choices is her “cheating” boyfriend.

And it’s here that the two have now swapped places.

For a while, Dani could only really see the constant between Christian, his friends and the cult; that they were all selfishly okay with murder.

But even if the Harga are doing the murdering, at least the cult can express emotion about it.

And so Dani follows through on the message that both sides of her dilemma reinforced to her. Dani comes to the realization that if literally every other character can be content with murder for selfish purposes, then why not her?

Meanwhile, the tragedy of Christian is compounded. It’s not simply that he can’t explain himself, but the boyfriend who didn’t listen to his girlfriend’s trauma has now gone through something traumatic himself and can’t speak about it.

He needs a shoulder to cry on and no one can hear him.

So as Christian and others are burnt alive as a final offering for this abhorrent festival, Dani and the entirety of the cult all weep.

The film’s concluding shot of Dani smiling doesn’t contradict these tears. It’s not as though her tears are a deception and the smile is how she really feels; she’s smiling in no small part because she can cry.

This is the tragedy of Midsommar. Every other character in the movie was fine with murder as long as they served their own self interest, and Dani was the only one opposed to it. The only decent person in the entire movie was stuck between two forms of acceptance of murder, between two evils, and she eventually chose the lesser of them. Because at least that evil felt something.

But it was still evil.

The Ending

I read a piece titled “The Ending of Midsommar: Explained“. The piece ended with the following”:

“The Hargas deliver for her what no friend or family member could back in America. Their rituals are not violent or cruel. They are an extension of the seasons. They are life itself. They are love. Dani gave into them and was rewarded the happiness of human connection. We could all be so lucky.”

This is a deeply unsettling reading.

It’s not a question of whether or not having a community is a good thing. Having a a community and a shoulder to cry on is a great thing, it’s an essential thing. The tragedy of Midsommar is that the only place Dani could find these things was in a murderous cult that turned her into a murderer. 

I’m not of the opinion that Christian was a good guy before he was raped, framed, and murdered. I’m also of the opinion that he didn’t deserve to be raped, framed, and murdered, and that Dani didn’t deserve to be manipulated.

They deserved to just break up.

 

 

 

 

 

Spoilers Herein

Aside from myself, the March 12th, 9 pm AMC Plymouth Meeting showing of The Way Back was empty.

I don’t know exactly what to say about that, only that it felt like the only way to open up this piece.

There’s a lot that can be said about The Way Back, but it is, first and foremost, a harmonization of a sports story and a sobriety story. This harmonization works with the expectations and tropes of an inspirational sports movie. That said, it’s not simply a case of “protagonist struggles with ______ , starts coaching, helps his ragtag team of misfits get to the big game while overcoming ______, then realizes all this time he thought he was coaching the kids, when really, they were coaching him”, with alcoholism filling in the blanks.

Rather, the film instead uses the realities of alcoholism to reflect on the realities of life. Our struggles as human beings are never forever solved, and we are not, as Rian Johnson put it, a “video game character who has achieved a binary, permanent power-up.” A struggle with sobriety is never a permanent fix, and it’s never as simple as winning the big game. There are days when it will be easier than others, but hard or easy, they are all days, and they have to be taken, as they say, one at a time.

Days Of Future Past 

We see Jack Cunningham (Ben Affleck) in three different places in his life regarding alcoholism. The first, of course, is plain old off-the-wagon drinking. Throughout the film we see him enjoying a shower beer, going to work, getting obscenely drunk at his regular pub, and then carried up to his apartment by a concerned old friend of his father. Wash, rinse, repeat.

These drinking scenes brought back memories. They were familiar. But they never felt like something I was at risk of. I never felt like I could go back to this, because I don’t want to go back to this. I feel a confidence with my current state of sobriety, as though I could never want anything else.

Jack’s first game is highlighted by a notable long shot of him walking onto the court. This is both familiar and new; it’s his first time in the court as coach but he’s back. Jack’s anger doesn’t help them win the game, nor has he  achieved sobriety by the start of it (in the consistent sense, of course; he’s not drunk at the game). He’s even called out by his assistant coach for leaving behind some empty beer cans in his office. He dismisses the criticism, claiming he had a friend stop by.

One night he heads to his usual bar. So far in the film, when we see him at the bar, he’s already there and already drinking. We don’t see the first, only the 50th.

This time, though, we see the outside, what would be the beginning of the night, as he sits in the car. His bartender buddy is seen taking out the trash; he notices Jack, and tells him he’s going to set him up.

For a few more moments, he just sits. And then his car leaves the parking lot.

He’s not drinking tonight.

Despite being sober (knock on wood, 341 days when I post this), despite enjoying sobriety,  and despite my “I remember these days but don’t miss them” feelings during the earlier drinking scenes in the movie….I let out an exacerbated sigh here. This scene was unexpectedly stressful, as it unearthed a stress I had completely forgotten about.

I don’t want to start drinking again. But I don’t want to have to stop drinking again.

I’ve been splinter free for 341 days, and I’m continuing my precautions to avoid getting splinters. But God forbid I do get one, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take it out. Maintaining sobriety is much, much easier than achieving it, and the thought of being in that semi-hungover state and then having to say “no” again is a nightmare.

But this nightmare quickly subsided. After he drives away, we get a shot of Jack standing on his apartment patio. Anytime we’ve seen him at night at his apartment, he’s either plastered or in the process of it.

Here, he’s enjoying the view. Enjoying the possibilities.

A new day awaits.

The Big Game

Jack is sober now, and they start winning games, but he’s not free of his other faults. Sobriety gives us the ability to focus on our problems, but it doesn’t solve them, and Jack’s anger brings him to such a low that he gets removed from a game. And not just any game; it was their first of two chances to go to the playoffs, and it was the first game his family attended.

Jack finally starts to confront his anger. And he does so before a game. The big game. The game that’s their last chance to enter the playoffs. He enters the court accompanied by a similar long shot to his first game. Like the one that preceded it, it highlights a new experience in a familiar place. But it’s not simply him returning to the court, or him coaching for the first time, but coaching with a new headspace.

They, of course, win the game, and winning the big game goes the way you’d expect the winning of the big game to go cinematically. The star player who made the winning shot is hoisted up, everyone’s happy, and it ends with a freeze frame on a medium shot of Jack, which then fades out.

It’s a brilliant fake-out ending.

Life Beyond The Game  

Before the fake out ending, we get two pieces of information relating to any children Jack may have had. The first is when Jack is being interviewed for the coaching job, and Jack tells the priest (John Aylward) that he and ex-wife Angela (Janina Gavankar) didn’t have children.

The second is when Jack is at a birthday party for a boy named David. Jack is introduced to David as the father of Michael, David’s old hospital friend (if I recall, it’s said that Michael and David raced in their wheelchairs, or something to that degree).

David had cancer. And unfortunately, not long after the game, Jack learns that his son’s friend’s cancer is back.

For a little while, doing right by his team was Jack’s priority. Getting sober and working on his anger helped that goal.

But in seeing David’s parents learn the news, in seeing their trauma, Jack gets a trigger. A trigger that is not simply being asked about kids, or being reminded about his son having existed. Seeing the pain he once endured is far too specific to not elicit a response, and he wants to escape.

And through this response, we learn that suppressing Michael’s death is the ultimate priority. More than the game, more than his anger, and more than his sobriety.

And so we get a third long shot. This shot, like the two in the basketball courts, is a return to a familiar place. But this time, the familiar place is the bar. Jack sits at the bar. He puts the glass near his mouth, briefly hesitates, and then takes the sip. Immediately after, the film cuts to a familiar shot of Jack being carried up to his apartment by an old friend of his Dad’s. Before he sobered up, we didn’t see Jack’s first drink, only his 50th. Here we see the first sip, followed by the results of the 50th.

I said before that I didn’t miss the drinking days that Jack was going through, but watching Jack stop drinking was stressful. That I’ve remained splinter free, but don’t know what I’d do if I had to get a splinter out again.

Watching this showed me what it would be like if I got the splinter again. That it would  be painful and, worst of all, could happen at any time.

And it’s all after the winning shot. All after the hoisting of the star player. All after the freeze frame and fade.

None of this means that the sport is irrelevant. The fake-out ending, the contrast of those tropes, doesn’t mean the film is criticizing these things, it’s not a satire. But utilizing these tropes to establish joy and success just makes Jack’s relapse and its consequences all the more heartbreaking.

The Consequences

The morning after his relapse is established by a shot of an empty patio that established his first night sober. No longer a night of potential, it is now a wasted morning.

He’s late for practice and blames the lateness on a power outage. But worse than merely late and lying, he’s still drunk. And even worse than still drunk, he’s drinking later in his office. He hides the liquor when his assistant coach Dan (Al Madrial) and the Priest enter his office, but they tell him he’s fired.

No warning. The school has a no tolerance policy when it comes to alcohol, and so this relapse isn’t some bump in the road for his career as coach, some personal issue that will run adjacent to new problems for his time coaching the team. He’s done with the team.

There remains dramatic harmony between the sport and the real life drama, and once more, the film is not satire, but it’s not a tragedy either. The harmony is not found in “he relapsed, therefore his coaching life is over, therefore his life is over.” It doesn’t end on this dire note. The two men that fired him even want to get him help.

But the night does get darker before the dawn. He angrily rejects their help, doesn’t stop drinking, drinks while driving, crashes the car, accidentally walks into the wrong house, less accidentally gets into a fight with the homeowner, and ends up in the hospital.

This is rock bottom. There’s no way around it anymore. Jack needs to go to rehab, and to rehab he goes.

Here, he has to confront it all. Angela, Michael’s death, everything. But he’s in the right place to do this, with the right support (he gets visits from his family in addition to Angela), and getting to the right mindset. And so the film ends with Jack in rehab, shooting some hoops on his own, as the team goes on to the playoffs. They haven’t won the playoffs, but they’re there. Just like Jack hasn’t completely forever achieved sobriety, but he can properly try now.

True Dramatic Harmony 

And so we have the optimistic note the film ends on, and the proper dramatic harmony between basketball and Jack’s life. Getting into the playoffs isn’t the same as winning the championship game, and getting into rehab isn’t a guarantee for eternal sobriety, but they both represent potential.

Yes, Jack’s relapse led to consequences that can’t be changed, and there is a very real threat of failure for both the team and Jack. But with that threat of failure comes hope. It’s through this threat of failure that our successes become possible, that they become meaningful. If sobriety was easy then people wouldn’t need to fight for it daily, and if its failure wasn’t significant then we would have nothing to fight for.

And, above all, even if we fail, we just have to start fighting again.

Because there’s always a way back.

 

 

 

 

 

Shot-reverse-shot is given a bad rap as an un-cinematic first refuge of an un-imaginary hack.

In fairness, this is because, in the hands of an un-imaginary hack, it is an un-cinematic first refuge. 

But I’ve noticed something lately; people only criticize its use in-and-of-itself when it’s in a movie they dislike. Few would dare criticize Fincher or Scorsese when they use it, for instance. But this isn’t necessarily hypocrisy, as it speaks to a few things; the distinction of basic and properly basic, and that this form is only as good as its content. 

Yes, it’s simple and un-imaginary to just cut back and forth between two people saying mundane nonsense. But there’s something human about shot-reverse-shot. If I recall correctly, for a bar conversation in Fight Club, Fincher just wanted to get a ton of film, set up two cameras, and just let these characters talk. This also seems to be what Scorsese goes for in some of his films; just let the characters talk. This allows a freedom for the actors, and thus a freedom in editing. When do you cut from one person to the next? Why do you cut then? When do you cut to the close-up? 

There’s a lot that could be said here. But as I’ve been thinking about The Prestige recently (as I’m apt to do), I’d like focus on a few scenes that particularly come to mind when thinking about this form. 

https://youtu.be/88_6SQKuTHk?t=38

This is a scene between Angier (Hugh Jackman) and Tesla (David Bowie). They’re having lunch, with Angier trying to convince Tesla to make a machine for him, and Tesla temporarily objecting based on the grounds of obsession. Tesla is an older, wiser man than Angier, and knows how far ambition and obsession can take a man. 

This is reflected in the form. Nolan’s most common use of shot-reverse-shot utilizes push-ins as a means of establishing realization or knowledge. Such an example can be found in this scene; 

https://youtu.be/7CEUIO8BgV8?t=79

This Inception scene isn’t just an example of the “push-in=understanding” motif, but also its opposite. The scene is consistently pushing in on Cobb, who immediately realizes why he’s here, but Saito starts by objecting to Cobb. As he doesn’t believe him at first, the camera initially pulls away, but the more he believes him, the camera starts pushing in. 

This “push-in=understanding” motif is very much happening in this scene in The Prestige, while also reflecting on the different life experiences of the two men. The scene starts with a wider shot of Angier; we see him, the meal he’s about to enjoy on the table, with Alley (Andy Serkis) pouring him some tea. This environment is all new to him, and we’re seeing it for the first time with him. 

The reverse shot of Tessla is closer. He knows the environment. He’s presumably had lunch here on countless occasions, with countless cups of tea poured by Alley. But sense of environmental understanding is only a small part of what makes this scene work. The camera is further away from Angier because he has less understanding of this subject, and is closer to Tesla at the start, but it’s still pushing in on the two of them. 

Tesla may have more life experience than Angier, and he knows where this obsession will take him, but Angier is still just as motivated. This contrast in experience but similarity in motivation is reflected in the shot-reverse-shot; the contrast in experience is reflected in the different places that the camera starts on both men, while the similarity in motivation is established by the camera ending in the same spot. The shot-reverse-shot establishes both intimacy and psychology. 

But my favorite use of shot-reverse-shot in this film is found in the relationship between the twin Bordens (Christian Bale). 

I’ve seen it said a few times that Nolan should have made the Borden twins known from the start. That this would have allowed him to explore the drama more effectively, to explore the toll it was taking on their lives. This criticism misses the point of the twist; that it’s a secret is the drama. That we don’t properly see the twins together until the end is the drama. Seeing them keep it a secret and showing the fallout of this secret is the entire point. And this is shown in the film’s use of close-ups on Borden and Fallon (the disguise that one twin would wear when the other was being “himself”).

Throughout the film, we get an occasional medium shot of Fallon (the disguise the twins would wear when they weren’t being themselves). 

Unfortunately, while the most important of the three scenes is available on youtube, the two other scenes are not. So you’ll just have to take my word that this is how they happen. 

The first scene in question features Borden meeting Fallon to discuss some errands and favors. We get a medium shot of Fallon but a close-up of Borden. We never get a reverse close-up of Fallon. Similarly, after Borden sees Angier’s “The Real Transported Man” and fails to figure out how he does it, we get a medium shot that’s pushing in on him saying “we’re done” to an offscreen Fallon. Fallon gets no reverse shot here. This twin is throwing in the towel, and is in keeping with Nolan’s push-in motif. He’s done with trying to best Angier as a magician. 

But the other twin isn’t. Which leads to him falling for Angier’s trap, and puts him on death row. Which leads to a final goodbye between the two twins. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g11cH_K2b7M

This scene again works with Nolan’s push-in motif, as the camera pushes in on the Borden on death row. He’s at first speechless, then reflects on how interlinked their lives were, saying “we go alone now.” He then tries to lighten the mood with the elephant in the room, saying “only I don’t have as far to go as you”, followed by the jailer unshackling his chains to take him away. 

It’s in this moment, as he’s about to be taken away, that we get the first close-up of Fallon, reacting to the jailer taking his brother away.

What’s interesting about the push-in motif here is that, when the film cuts back to Borden, the camera remains in the same spot as Borden is being walked away. It’s not pulling away, it’s staying where he wants to be. Where he’s being taken away from. 

Much can be said about the toll their secret took on Sarah, Olivia, and Jess. Certainly, the toll it took on them is the priority; they were unwilling victims. But the self-inflicted toll still remains.  This is the only true moment of shot-reverse-shot between the two, the only reverse close-up we get of Fallon, and the only moment of conversational intimacy between them. 

And it happens as they’re saying good-bye forever. 

It’s through these few shots that an entire arc is redefined in a mournful, absolutely devastating manner. The intimacy of shot-reverse-shot here reflects a lifelong denied intimacy, a denied brotherhood, a denied full life. 

And it’s all reflected through a moment of supposed cinematic un-imagination. 

I, of course, completely understand that there are un-imaginative uses of shot-reverse-shot. I just wanted to take this time to reflect on at least some of its potential, some of its possibility, and some of its value. 

It took me a little while to really jump on the Leigh Whannell bandwagon, but now that he’s done The Invisible Man, I’m not jumping off anytime soon. 

To start, absolutely intrinsic to the film’s drama is the form; the editing and the cinematography both give us a sense of, at once, complete clarity and a slight unease that completely undoes that clarity. In many scenes, we’re meant to understand the environment in full precisely as a means of disorienting us.

What’s particularly interesting is how the form compliments the way the narrative progresses. The first implication of the title character’s presence is found at the end of a happy scene between Cecilia (Elizabeth Moss) and the family hosting her (father and daughter James and Sydney Lanier, played by Aldis Hodge and Storm Reid respectively). The scene is brief but lovely; Cecilia has used part of the massive will left by supposedly dead ex Adrian (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) to pay for Sydney’s college. They drink, they celebrate, they have a grand time. 

A grand time that is fragmented by an ominous shot of the happy moment, the camera peering distantly from the hallway.

Watching. Waiting. 

In the following scene, Cecilia is hanging up some new clothes. As she unpacks the clothes, the camera pans to the other side of the room. She eventually walks to this other side of the room, establishing some comfort (the pan wasn’t irrelevant to what she was doing), but its initial irrelevance to her actions puts us on edge, and makes us aware of the unseen. 

These brief moments, unmotivated by anything we can see, evolve as the movie progresses. Whannell uses a few longer takes in the movie to establish geography, to establish that the characters know of the environment surrounding them, and to establish that this understanding will not help them. 

Only understanding the man will help someone survive this nightmare, and this is where the brilliance of making this a story of abuse arises. This isn’t some “we’re more feminist now” flavor of the week like in 2019’s Aladdin or the most recent Halloween. It’s a perfect harmony of concept and drama, utilizing the supernatural to reflect on the natural. 

Speaking about the abusive relationship at the center of the film, Whannell opted not to show a “day in the life” of Cecilia and Adrian, saying “I’m never going to be able to write a scene that will make Adrian as scary as the audience can make him. In my mind, I hoped that Cecilia’s reactions and the way she was acting told you everything you need to know.” This idea flows right into the supernatural elements, which means however good the rest of the movie is, however good the cinematography, editing and script are (and they’re great), the film doesn’t work if Moss doesn’t.

And boy, does she work. She sells us on every moment, happy and sad, terrified and brave. Most important is the balance she strikes between understanding the apparent absurdity of what’s happening and its real life implications. She knows what’s she saying appears impossible, and she knows it’s all true, escalating her performance to a point beyond simple fear or desperation. And she absolutely kills it. 

Such a characterization, of course, is not new to horror, just as the the concept of an invisible man isn’t. It’s the freshness that the film brings to both of these concepts that matters. It’s why the concept of “escalated horror” annoys me, as horror is a genre that doesn’t need to be “escalated.” And The Invisible Man, an inspired remake of a classic, is a reminder of what this genre has given us, and what it can provide.