devilsadvocritic

Spoilers for The Shining novel and film and the Doctor Sleep novel and film herein.

While at the time I’d only seen Kubrick’s film and not read The Shining, I had no issues reading Doctor Sleep in 2018. The differences between King’s novel and Kubrick’s film and their lasting impact on King’s sequel were simple and easy to grasp.

Oh, so Dick Halloran didn’t die? Oh, so the Overlook burnt down and Jack Torrance redeemed himself?

No problems there. I settled into this new world with no issue.

When it came to translating Doctor Sleep into a cinematic sequel to Kubrick’s film, I expected the story to remain mostly the same, and I thought any changes would primarily be simple, translational things.

But what writer/director Mike Flanagan does with his adaptation goes far beyond this. He doesn’t simply stick to the text of King’s Doctor Sleep andadd the visuals of Kubrick’s film/make little alterations when necessary. He reflects on the primary difference between Stephen King’s The Shining and Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation:

The former is a redemption story for Jack Torrance, and the latter is not.

This distinction leads to the film ending with Dan doing what his father didn’t in Kubrick’s film by burning down the Overlook. The thematic significance of this will be explored further (and first), but I also want to argue that this new ending, this new trajectory, has a thematic ripple effect on the rest of the story. Mainly, I hope to convince you that the cinematic deaths of two characters who didn’t die in the book, Dan’s friend Billy (Cliff Curtis) and Abra’s father David (Zackary Momoh), can be thematically traced to the unredeemed evil of Stanley Kubrick’s Jack Torrance.

The Core Story

The core story of both King’s novel and Flanagan’s film remain largely the same. Dan Torrance (Ewan McGregor) is all grown up, nice and traumatized from his childhood stay at the Overlook. He’s since developed a drinking problem like his old man (iconically portrayed Jack Nicholson in the first film, Henry Thomas in the sequel), one he embraces as a means of suppressing his shining. He makes some friends, gets sober, and once his life is back on track, he learns of a young girl named Abra (Kyliegh Curran).

Abra has the shining, more powerfully than anyone Dan has ever known. Unfortunately, this makes her a prime target for a group of quasi-immortal beings with the shining known as the True Knot. This group finds little ones with the shining and tortures them as a means of extracting their essence, a steam, this steam giving them longer life. Dan teams up with Abra to take out the True, Abra gets kidnapped, then saved, and they then confront the lead baddy Rose the Hat (Rebecca Ferguson) at the old Overlook stomping ground (this is so Dan can confront his past), Rose is killed, end of story.

The meat of the plot is the same. But the differences are key, and what will first be looked at is Jack Torrance’s presence in both iterations of Doctor Sleep.

“I’m Sorry I Wasn’t Better”

We don’t fully see him in either story towards the end. In the novel, his spirit is still present where the Overlook once stood, but it no longer stands there because of him. Now it’s an RV campground.

But there remains a residue. One that attracts beings that shine, making it irresistible to the RV traversing True Knot. When Dan decides to take the fight to them, Abra joins him through a spectral presence (she doesn’t physically attend due to her own safety). After disposing of the majority of the Knot, Dan and Abra go to take on the solo Rose the Hat.

Jack’s spirit intervenes to help his son and granddaughter*, and together they kill Rose. This, again, continues Jack’s redemption arc.

*For those who haven’t read the book, a key twist is that Jack had an affair during his drinking days, and from that affair came a child; Abra’s mother. The thematic significance of this will be explored later.

As Dan leaves, he and Jack have a touching moment. They’re too far from each other to say anything, but they have nothing to say. Dan knows his Dad redeemed himself, that he was a good man in the end.

And so they wave.

“Why Weren’t You Better?”

Jack’s presence in the climax of Flanagan’s film, on the other hand, is defined by the lack of it.

He didn’t redeem himself in Kubrick’s film, nor was the Overlook burnt down. He now takes on the Lloyd persona, pretending he doesn’t know who Dan is or Wendy (also iconically portrayed in the first film by Shelley Duvall, now played by Alex Essoe) was. Dan spends this conversation trying to speak to his father, to talk about his life, the death of his mother. Jack the bartender doesn’t listen, trying to convince his son to drink in lieu of confronting these problems.

Dan gets to the point where he practically begs his father to listen. “Don’t you want to hear about it? She was your wife!”  

Meanwhile, Jack continues to play dumb, insisting on alcohol in place of his son’s emotional trauma. Eventually, Dan outright denies the drink, and is then left alone. The silent wave between the two of them cannot happen here, because there’s no unspoken understanding that Jack tried to be better.

Because he didn’t try to be better.

Because Jack didn’t burn down the Overlook, and because he doesn’t help his son against Rose, Dan has to rely on the hungry residents of the Overlook to take her down. And they do! Unfortunately, unleashing a hungry bear on your foe doesn’t mean that the bear won’t turn on you. And so these residents possess Dan, the way they possessed his father in the Shining novel. Like the Shining novel and film, the crazed, possessed Dan goes after Abra the way his father pursued him. Again like the Shining novel, this leads to him fighting against the possession and sparing Abra. Again like the Shining novel, this leads to him running to the boiler room. He fights back against the possession once more, not letting them save the hotel.

And so he lets it burn, fulfilling what his father didn’t in Kubrick’s film. As it burns, he doesn’t have his Jack with him, but instead Wendy, effectively contrasting the climax of the book.

New Trajectory, New Path 

Because there’s a new ending, there are new themes to be discovered in Flanagan’s Doctor Sleep. To briefly summarize the new distinctions, King’s Doctor Sleep ends with Dan alive, and thus with a life to go back to. Since Flanagan’s film ends with Dan dying, there….is no life for him to go back to, and it’s more about the life he’s leaving behind; Abra’s.

That the book ends with a life for Dan to go back to leads to an emphasis on community, friends, and, most significantly, family, like the half-sister and niece he didn’t know he had. That the film ends with him dying leads to an emphasis on isolation, and there’s much less connective tissue to be found among the characters in the film than there are in the book.

To begin with, any relations connecting Abra and Dan are gone. As mentioned before, the book had a familial connection between Dan and Abra; it’s revealed that Jack had an affair during his drinking days, leading to the birth of Abra’s mother Lucy, thus making Dan the actual uncle of Abra.

This is all gone. As is Dr. John (Bruce Greenwood), someone Dan knows from AA, being Abra’s pediatrician.

This lessened sense of community impacts the film in other ways. Earlier I mentioned that Dan’s made some friends in his new life, but there are fewer friends in the film than in the book. For example; the character of Casey Kingsley, who was Dan’s employer and sponsor in the book, has been removed entirely, his two functions being split up and delegated to Dr. John and Billy Freeman (Cliff Curtis). And even with this delegation, the former only has two scenes.

Of course, these reductions and changes are not all in and of themselves a sign of any thematic ambition that Flanagan may have. It’s a film adaptation. They’re going to have to cut stuff out. But Flanagan also changes a key low point in the film, and it is through this low point that the emphasis on isolation is revealed.

Flanagan’s Ambush 

In both the book and the film, Dan coordinates a trap for the True Knot. Abra will “project” her shining to a different location to lure the True Knot away from her, a location where Dan will be waiting to ambush them.

In the book, it’s Dan, Dr. John, and Abra’s father David who partake in the ambush. Dan and David aren’t exactly friends yet (nor do they yet know they’re brothers-in-law), but Dr. John serves as a sort of mediator between the two, and the two men eventually come to trust each other. Billy Freeman stays back at Abra’s house to watch over her.

In the film, there’s no Dr John, and Billy swaps places with David to join Dan at the ambush. There’s no new relationship that needs mediation; he’s with a friend he’s known for eight years.

Both the book and film end this segment with a tragic twist; while the respective ambushers kill all of the True Knot members they…ambushed, one secretly went to Abra’s home. He drugs and kidnaps her.

This kidnapping is accompanied both in the film and book by a complimentary low point, but these low points differ according to the themes at hand. Meaning the book’s low point correlates with its interest in community, whereas the film’s low point correlates with its interest in isolation.

In the book, Billy Freeman is also drugged by the kidnapper and brought along for the ride. David Stone chews Dan out, blaming him for what’s happened. The low point here is of a relationship that needs mediating. In addition to Abra’s life, what’s being threatened is the life that’s waiting for Dan when all this is over. This low point is resolved by Dan learning and revealing (through means, though dramatically effective, too convoluted to summarize here) of the familial relationship between him and Abra’s mother Lucy. It’s community and family itself that brings them together.

In the film, the kidnapper kills David.

Billy Freeman gets too close to a True Knot member who can “suggest” people do things. After she “suggests” it, Billy takes his gun and kills himself.

Whereas the book had an assortment of people working together to find Abra, with the complimentary low point being the distrust between Dan and Abra’s father, the film leaves Dan all alone.

The significance of this complimentary low point is that it utterly isolates Dan, and also serves as a sort of threat. Billy was Dan’s only friend, the only life he really had, and now he’s gone. There’s no life for him to go back to. Billy being Dan’s AA sponsor also has the compounded effect of forcing Dan to confront the bottle, alone, for the first time in years. Meanwhile, the death of David Stone serves as a threat that Abra may have no life to go back to.

The thematic significance of these deaths reinforce Dan’s decision at the end of the film; to give his life and burn down the Overlook, the way his father did in the novel, and to give Abra a second chance. The second chance his father gave him in the Shining novel, and failed to give him in the film.  

Coming Back Around

In conclusion:

The lack of redemption for Stanley Kubrick’s Jack Torrance lead to the Overlook not burning down the way it did in the Shining novel. This distinction lead to a different ending for Dan in the film Doctor Sleep, where he had to fulfill what his father didn’t do and give Abra a second chance. These things lead to a new theme of isolation, thus leading to the new low points found in the deaths of Dan’s friend Billy and Abra’s father David. 

As a fan of King’s Doctor Sleep, I was initially a little upset by these changes, only looking at them on the surface. I was shocked by the death of Billy, a character who I loved in the book (and thought was wonderfully played by Cliff Curtis), and my instinctive response to Dan dying was “awww, I get it but I don’t want him to die.”

But the more I reflected on it, the more I realized that what Flanagan had accomplished with this new narrative was extraordinary. As previously said, this wasn’t some intellectual exercise, a simple adaptation of a book with a new coat of Kubrick’s paint. It’s instead a profoundly powerful harmony of, and reflection on, Kubrick’s film and King’s novels, understanding what makes each of them tick and creating a new story that was better than I could have hoped.

Mike Flanagan had a herculean task in this adaptation unlike any I’ve seen before. And in handling it, he created a masterful film that, too, was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The film already has a positive reception, but, as with Kubrick’s film, I think (and hope) that time will be even kinder to it.

 

A concept that has always fascinated me in storytelling and art is de-familiarization.

“A theory and technique, originating in the early 20th century, in which an artistic or literary work presents familiar objects or situations in an unfamiliar way, prolonging the perceptive process and allowing for a fresh perspective.”

I shared the definition from dictionary.com because I didn’t specifically know the term de-familiarization until recently (I have Adam Jameson to thank for enlightening me). How I always explored my interest was in comparing and contrasting different uses of similar ideas. Using one thing as a foundation, as a seed, to create another thing.

More specifically, using our knowledge of a thing to create a new thing.

It’s an idea that I’ve come across primarily in sequels, and I wrote about it back in 2018. If you don’t feel like reading the whole thing (it primarily focuses on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which will be a draw for some and repellant for others), here’s the opening paragraph to establish the basics of what I’m referring to:

“Blockbuster sequels will tend to use set pieces, images or dialogue from their predecessor as a means of both re-establishing prior themes and a promise that the sequel will have a larger scope. What’s interesting is that while studios have always been sequel hopeful for their blockbusters, these formal ideas were previously retroactive, with the filmmakers looking back on the predecessor as they’re making the sequel and finding a way to incorporate these familiar images and moments.”

But this idea has also had a fascinating presence in video games; a new, minor twist to a foundational gameplay mechanic can create all sorts of new opportunities.

There are plenty of examples to cite throughout the history of the medium. But I came across a brilliant example playing the demo for the Resident Evil 3: Nemesis remake. I may not be a video game connoisseur, and it may be a demo, but the experience of coming across the title character in said demo is one of the most memorable experiences I’ve had playing a video game.

And it’s all because of de-familiarization.

My Residence With Evil

My introduction to the Resident Evil franchise was the 4th entry. First on the PS2 (shout out to Jeremy Allen for secretly lending it to me), then again on the Wii (shout out to the Plymouth Meeting FYE employee for not asking me for ID). I also played 5, skipped 6, then played 4 countless times throughout the intervening years, and then played 7 a few years back.

It wasn’t until the Resident Evil 2 remake that I decided to actually explore more of the franchise beyond whichever just came out. I’m still not a fanatic, but I played the REmake, recently started 0, and am going through Resident Evil: Revelations, with plans to devour whatever else I can get my hands on.

Frankly, you could write a book about how much the series has changed through the years. It has evolved and rebooted in countless ways, all while maintaining a sense of identity. I initially struggled to see any proper connective tissue between 4 and 7 (beyond Umbrella, herbs, and of course, obscene mutated monsters and horrific violence) when those were my primary reference points. But after going through more of the franchise, the distinctions and similarities and that general Resident Evil feel stood out all the stronger.

But rather than writing a book, I’m going to specifically refer to the specific experience I had going from the remake of Resident Evil 2 to the demo for Resident Evil 3: Nemesis remake. This experience was due to RE2‘s Mr. X being the foundation that evolved into the title character for RE3.

As I haven’t played the originals, this gap (at least on a conceptual level) is probably familiar to anyone that has.

Mr. X

There’s little comfort to be found in Mr. X’s insistence on walking.

Yes, you can outrun him. Yes, you can hide from him. But once you hear him coming, once you hear those almost rhythmic footsteps (which are so traumatizing I sometimes mistake my character’s footsteps for his), you have to run. You have no choice. That your pace is faster than his just reminds me of a quote from another one of my favorite muscular henchmen; “there can be no true despair without hope.”

If you don’t outrun him, or if your hiding spot doesn’t stay hidden, he punches you. Like his brisk pace, there’s no comfort to be found in there just being one punch, and it’s an instantaneous reminder why you have to run. Because you don’t want to give him the time to punch you again.

And I’ve only talked about dealing with him solo. I haven’t even touched on what it’s like to run from this big, almost-Looney-Tunes-esque-but-somehow-horrifyingly-real slob of muscle when you have any other enemies around. Running into a zombie and it biting at your neck would otherwise be a frustrating experience; with Mr. X on your tail, it’s an almost unfathomable horror. Being slowed down and injured when close to an ever-pursuing hulk is, after all, not ideal.

Nemesis

I downloaded the demo for the Resident Evil 3 remake. Having not played the original, all I had to go on for Nemesis were comparisons to RE2’s Mr. X. Developers spoke about Nemesis tracking the player the same way Mr. X did, about players not knowing when or where he’d show up, being able to grab the player with a tentacle, etc.

To summarize all this, producer Peter Fabiano said they are “determined to surpass (Mr. X) with Nemesis.” 

When I saw this, I didn’t think much of this beyond “cool!” As a fan of RE2, I was already excited for its follow-up. As a fan of Mr. X, I was excited for his follow-up. Little to think beyond that.

After downloading the demo, the pre-Nemesis material went about as expected. I was given a goal. While trying to achieve that goal I shot, stabbed, and ran from zombies. I also gathered ammo and created ammo to shoot the zombies, and I also gathered first aid and herbs for whenever one of those undead dipshits bit me in the neck.

That last simplistic summary of the gameplay shouldn’t be seen as a criticism of the game. It’s just the foundation both the RE2 remake and the rest of the franchise helped establish. It’s not a bad thing in any capacity, it simply…is.

Nemesis arrives, and he takes those ever so familiar first few steps towards me. So I looked at him with the same, basic sense of foundational understanding that I looked at the rest of the demo with. I did A when confronted zombies in RE2, I do A when confronted with zombies in RE3. I did B when confronted with Mr. X in RE2, so I do B when confronted with Nemesis in RE3.

So I turned around, started to run-

And then I hear him running.

And then he hits me not once, but twice.

I don’t exactly remember what happened during those disorienting seconds between the shock of the double-hit and when I started running towards the steps, but, eventually, towards the steps I ran. I didn’t hear him running, and for a brief moment, I felt free, I felt safe.

That moment ended when he landed right in front of me.

It would seem that he can leap. He can’t quite leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he can leap far enough for me to nearly piss myself.

I can wax poetic about the fear of a foe that can only walk all I want. When I first came across Nemesis, I would have given anything to hear Mr. X’s briskly paced footsteps in Nemesis’ place.

The Player’s Place

It, of course, wouldn’t be fair to leave the player in a spot where they’re totally helpless. You could use weapons to slow down Mr. X, but it wasn’t an essential part of of avoiding him.

With Nemesis, it’s….recommended. But this isn’t enough. The player needs a means of surviving his new pace and attacks, which comes in the form of “new” environmental aids and a “new” control (new is in quotes because I’m presuming they were a part of the original Resident Evil 3).

In terms of the environment, you’ll come across barrels of gasoline that will, in classic video game fashion, blow up when shot. There’s also a generator that will release an electrical field when you shoot it. These things make it easier to stop the running beast in his tracks.

But an occasional environmental assistance isn’t enough, as the game needs to provide a new consistent means of defending yourself. And so the game gives you an ability you didn’t have in RE2; the ability to “quick-step”. Once the big guy gets near you, you can “quick-step” and, if your timing is right, avoid his hit.

Coming Back Around

These new abilities essentially put you at the same “can just barely survive” position you were in with Mr. X.

But the similarities between the foe and your ability to survive the foe don’t make the game (or, at least, the demo) unimaginative or repetitive. I may have only just played a demo for the game, but I maintain that confronting Nemesis in that demo was one of the most memorable gaming experiences of my life, and it’s precisely through the similarities that the experience is able to evolve, and the familiar is able to develop a new life.

 

 

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. 

It’s one thing for an artist to simply be convinced of the importance of their work. Arrogance isn’t recommendable, but there’s at least the opportunity for said artist to put their money where their mouth is.

The problem with something like Netflix’s Locke and Key is that it’s convinced of an importance that it doesn’t have.

Just as the villainess Dodge (Laysla De Oliveria) tells one of her victims, “there’s nothing special about you at all.”

The show tries to tackle many different subjects and many different tones with many different characters. It takes a gander at trauma, family, toxic masculinity, the impact of violent media, and alcoholism via comedy, horror, and fantasy through characters of all different backgrounds and ages.

The issue here is not one of cohesiveness. It is one of substance, one of a failure to accomplish any of these things. While there’s certainly a clear passion behind this show and the implementation of all its ideas, the show’s creators and writers don’t seem to go beyond “this is a good idea, therefore the show will be good!” There’s no proper exploration of these ideas, no joy of true creativity, no soul. Everything is just a check off of a list.

Typically these kinds of issues are associated with expository thematic dialogue. That’s occasionally an issue with Locke and Key, but the soullessness of the show is found beyond these typical issues. Like last year’s Ready or Not, the storytellers are so desperate to convince you of the show’s cleverness, of its personality, and that it has an “emotional core” that in this desperation, the final product is utterly lifeless.

One example of this is found in a flashback. Locke matriarch Nina (Darby Stanchfield) is celebrating her one year of sobriety with presently deceased Locke patriarch Rendell (Bill Heck). The scene is bizarrely, uncomfortably casual, as though she wasn’t celebrating this with her husband but someone she met on the street. He gives her a mug that says “Ray Of F*cking Sunshine” on it. They celebrate by toasting with ginger ale.

Everything about this scene rings false. “Ray Of F*cking Sunshine” feels as though it was strategically chosen to show how much personality these characters have. Same with the ginger ale; you see, they’re not celebrating with something flashy, they’re celebrating with something casual! Because they’re casual folks just like you and me!

The most glaring examples of this problem are found in the show’s villainess Dodge. Take the scene in the second episode; Dodge is a sort of demon who is confined to a well house. She tricks young Bode Locke (Jackson Robert Scott) into freeing her and giving her the “anywhere key”, which allows her to transport anywhere she’s seen.

When she’s first freed from her confinement, she’s teleporting around, stuffing her face with handfuls of pancakes, stealing clothes from a prestigious fashion show in a different country, and so on.

The idea behind the scene is an effective use of visual storytelling to convey both Dodge’s personality and how the key works. The idea behind this scene is fine. But I could practically hear the creative forces behind the show saying “oh my gosh, the kids will look at her and say ‘goals’! This scene will be one yas queen moment after another!”

This “how do you do, fellow kids” attitude is probably the most prevalent example of the show’s desperation to be loved. There’s at least one use of  a modern song per episode.

And each use is bad. Very bad.

The most embarrassing example is found in the second to last episode. A villainous character (won’t get into who exactly, don’t want to get too spoilery) puts on an evil crown as dark, shadow spirits surround them. As the spirits converge, the villainous characters says

“hello darkness…..

….my old friend.”

As if I didn’t want to drown myself in kerosene enough after that awful line, Bille Eilish’s “you should see me in a crown” plays over this scene.

The use of this song is dramatically incompetent and tonally irrelevant. It escalated the show’s use of songs from “alright, I guess they want to be hip” to the the purest form of embarrassing that I’ve come across in a Netflix original.

And you know the worst part about all of this?

It isn’t that the creative people behind this show don’t care.

It’s that they clearly do.

 

 

 

 

 

I read Doctor Sleep in rehab back in November 2018. I’ve said before that rehab helped curb my minor physical dependence and plant the seeds of total, finally sobriety. But I didn’t reach this total, final sobriety until the following April (knock on wood; 295 days as I type this).

Despite this not yet total commitment to sobriety, I still reflect on Doctor Sleep as a companion, a friend during my time there. I may not have shown proper appreciation to this friend, the way I didn’t show proper appreciation to any friend or loved one during this not yet total commitment.

But a friend it was. In a time when a balance of healthy isolation and healthy community was paramount, it allowed me to be with someone by myself. Of particular importance was the fact that the majority of Dan’s struggles in the novel happen after he achieves sobriety. This friend was teaching me (or trying to, anyway) that sobriety will not fix my problems; it will help me face them.

In what could only be the result of divine timing, the film adaptation of Doctor Sleep released roughly about a year after I started reading the book. Even if it wasn’t a year of sobriety, a year tends to permit for reflection. And as I watched Dan go from page to screen, I was able to see what the seeds rehab had planted had finally become. It didn’t hurt that the significant (and brilliant) changes from the book included a scene where Dan gets to confront the ghost of his father. While the Jack Torrance in both of King’s novels redeemed himself, the one we saw in Kubrick’s film didn’t, and takes on the Lloyd persona in Doctor Sleep, not knowing he’s Dan’s father (supposedly).

As Dan talks about the death of Wendy Torrance and the impact this had on him, the man that should be his father repeatedly deflects the conversation, and tries to get him to drink.

“She was your wife, don’t you wanna know about it?” are the words that Dan speaks.

What he’s actually asking, is “why weren’t you better?”

When I look back on all of my time I spent drinking the time after rehab, the time I should have been sober, the time when the seeds I should have been watering were being drenched every two weeks by rebel yell whiskey, I ask myself the same thing. I ask myself that as I reflect on the entirety of the time I spent drinking, but especially that time.

But what was most important about that scene wasn’t my reaction; it was the reaction of two dear friends, Seth and Dylan. They, both being fond of the movie, didn’t just praise it. They made a point to tell me that they knew the film had a personal impact on me.

I didn’t even tell them it did. But it did, and they knew.

And so the story that helped me in isolation (even if I didn’t show proper appreciation) would go on to help me in friendship.

This is the power of storytelling, and it’s something Stephen King knows very well. It can allow you to see yourself, and allow others to see you. His emphasis on alcoholism in stories can range from giving life to a supporting character like Claude Bolton in The Outsider, or it can be out in plain sight for all to see like it is in Doctor Sleep.

But whether supporting character or core theme, it’s there.

I know Stephen King retracted his statements about diversity in art, so I’m not trying to pile on him anymore. But given this personal connection I had to both a work of art he created and a work of art he helped originate, it felt remiss to not speak about this connection, given the recent discussion he incited.

Just as it feels remiss to ignore the fact that I’m not the only one that needs to see myself.

There are so many people that need to, and so many people that aren’t. When discussions of diversity in art come up, it shouldn’t be seen as “meeting a quota”, but instead as denied opportunities of expression. Denied opportunities of humanity. The oh so common stance of “I don’t care about the race/gender of the character so long as they’re well written” (not saying King said this)  denies the vast richness of humanity, as though our different experiences and gifts should be dismissed because “all that matters is if the character is good” (whatever that means).

Richer stories will come from our understanding of our rich humanity, and a richer humanity will come from these richer stories. And we ought to stop ignoring that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jojo Rabbit was a movie I was somewhat interested in but didn’t make an extra effort to see. I loved What We Do In The Shadows, liked Thor: Ragnarok, but Jojo never became a priority.

When it returned to theaters, I finally gave it a watch. Some negative reviews I read and the first 15-ish minutes of the movie finally articulated why I had little interest in it; the film’s use of slapstick and oafishness as satire/criticism of nazis was uncomfortable.

But, even putting aside the obvious objection of “what about The Great Dictator” (which is brilliant), the film’s progression removed such criticisms. It eventually became apparent that the satire of Jojo Rabbit is not found in “haha Nazis are dumb” slapstick, but is instead found in its whimsical portrayal of Jojo’s Nazi surroundings, using this whimsy as a means of perspective. His redemption is found through the harsh contrast of this perspective, and this leads to one of the film’s few genuinely positive uses of slapstick at the end, when it embraces childish imagination as a means of catharsis.

Moonrise Kingdom: Nazi Edition

The opening of the movie is where my “bad” discomfort (in the sense that I was uncomfortable with the artistic ambitions of the movie) was in full force. The idea of the 10 year old title character excitedly saying “Heil Hitler” with his imaginary best friend Hitler was just…off.

Things manage to get more uncomfortable when we get to camp and are introduced to the counselors. Captain Klenzendorf (Sam Rockwell) is an idiotic, irresponsible drunkard who spends part of his introductory scene aimlessly firing his gun around children, and he clearly resents being there. Fraulein Rahm (Rebel Wilson) assists the children in an atrocious anti-Semitic drawing, furthering this depiction by making up an also atrocious story about the origin of Jewish ancestry.

This camp time “fun” progresses to Jojo being bullied by his fellow campers and counselors. He’s mocked over his inability to kill a rabbit, which leads to his new nickname. When he has another little pow-wow with his imaginary Hitler, he finds a newfound courage; he and his imaginary Hitler run in a silly, slow-mo sequence where he grabs a grenade out of Captain K’s hand during a presentation. Jojo throws this grenade, only for it to hit a tree, bounce back towards him, and seriously injure him. This injury is also played in a comical fashion, and the scene ends with Captain K telling the other kids calmly “don’t do that”, the comedy coming from the irony of his calm response to a life threatening event.

Jojo is sent to a hospital for his injuries, which don’t kill him but render him incapable of returning to camp. His mother Rosie (Scarlett Johansson, giving what might be the ultimate example of “iffy accent but great performance”) “requests” that Jojo be given a job by kneeing Captain K in the groin. Jojo’s newfound job is setting up posters around, which is conveyed through a montage with a chorus of children playing in the background.

What I Thought He Was Doing 

It’s all very whimsical. And it’s all very well shot and realized whimsy. And it all feels wrong and out of place. Even if we’re going to present Nazis in a “haha, look at these dumbasses” kind of way, is that…enough?

Even asking that question feels irresponsible. Imagine if someone is slapped on the wrist as a punishment for murder. Asking “is that enough?” in a non-rhetorical manner would be a grossly irresponsible question to ask when the answer is “of course not.”

While thinking about this, not long after Sam Rockwell is kneed in the groin, we see the lifeless bodies of hanging dissenters in the middle of Jojo’s hometown.

“You Must Not Avert Your Eyes”

Rosie stares directly at these bodies, while Jojo tries to look away. She doesn’t let him, grasping the top of his head to turn it in their direction. She tells him;

“Look.”

(I couldn’t help but think of that Herzog quote I just referred to when she does that).

There’s a sign on one of the bodies. Though the characters speak almost entirely in English, the sign is in German.

Jojo asks “what did they do?”

Rosie responds “what they could.”

A Punch To The Gut

This scene is a deliberate, harsh contrast of what we had previously seen in the movie (highlighted by the different language on the sign). These bodies, these deaths are new to Jojo. He thinks he’s just a little guy who gets to go to camp so he can support his idol. And so I realized the idiocy of characters like Captain K and Fraulein Rahm wasn’t Taika’s endgame for his Nazi criticism.

These characters are, first and foremost, the idiotic adults in a child’s story. They’re the jackass principal in a John Hughes comedy, whose oafishness is there as a means of showing how adults just don’t get it. Something similar can be said with the bullies; they’re big old meanies for mocking him, making him feel like he’ll never achieve his dream.

It’s the hanging bodies, the bodies he can’t yet look at, that show us his dream isn’t worth achieving.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he will.

The Horror of “Heil Hitler”

There are a few scenes in particular that drive this contrast home. This segment will look at the first.

Jojo discovers his mother is hiding a Jewish girl named Elsa in their home. He doesn’t care for her at first, but keeps her presence a secret as he doesn’t want his mother to get in trouble.
The scene in question features gestapo who have come to inspect Jojo’s house. The gestapo have a relatively comedic presence; as they enter his house, one by one, they all say “Heil Hitler” to Jojo, and he responds in kind each time. The film has a shot of each man saying it and a shot of Jojo’s response, highlighting the repetition for comedic effect. When Captain K and his assistant also enter his house, though the editing isn’t quite the same, the same repetitive “Heil Hitler” gag occurs.

As they inspect the house, Jojo fears that Elsa will be found, until she makes her presence readily known. She gets away with this by claiming to be his sister, a lie they believe.

The importance of this scene is found in the distinction of Elsa’s response to the repetitive “Heil Hitler” trope. When the first man says it, we get a close-up of Elsa, where she is clearly horrified and hesitating.

She finally says it, hoping it’ll be the only time. But as we know, it’s not. And while the cinematography and editing between Jojo’s “Heil Hitler” scene and Captain K’s was not exactly the same, Elsa’s sequence gets a shot that makes her situation clearly stand out; we get a brief wide shot, showing the backs of the men as they once again repeat the phrase, with Elsa in the middle of this shot in the background. The men dominate the frame that she takes up little space in, to highlight the threat this situation has for her. She’s a seal in disguise in a room full of sharks.

This scene exists to show the contrast of the two perspectives. Jojo dealing with the phrase is presented as though it’s a thorn in his side, as if while trying to fight off a crocodile, there’s also a bee that won’t buzz off.

“Aw gosh, I can’t believe I have to keep saying those words.”

With Elsa, she’s being forced to praise a man who wants her and every single Jewish person dead.

It’s the furthest thing from a mere annoyance.

The Real Hitler

The second scene involves the imaginary Hitler.

The fact that Jojo’s imaginary Hitler is not the real deal is something the film embraces. When Jojo was putting up signs of Hitler earlier, it’s not Taika Waititi’s face on these signs, but the real Hitler’s face. But the most significant example of this is found when Jojo talks with the imaginary Hitler following the gestapo visit.

Hitler obviously berates Jojo for not revealing Elsa. His dialogue, which previously fit the bill for a silly imaginary friend, now fits the bill of a real Hitler. Whether or not it’s an actual Hitler speech, I don’t know, but it certainly sounds like it could be one, and the music in this scene is grim and unsettling.

The facade is fading.

Jojo Looks Again

The third scene in question features Jojo going out for some errands. The world around him is much grayer than it was before, but he sees a pretty blue butterfly, and follows it with a simple delight.

It’s a nice little moment for Jojo.

Having lowered himself to the ground to check out the butterfly, he rises, only to realize he’s by the hanging bodies again. And there’s one in particular that stands out;

His mother’s.

I’m having trouble describing exactly what Jojo does in response; he either grasps her legs (it’s all he can reach) or hugs them. He begins to tie her recognizable shoes (Jojo wasn’t very good at tying shoes earlier in the film) and then goes back to that desperate grasp/hug.

There’s a brief time jump, showing him sitting as he looks up at his mother.

(Fun fact: this is the only time I’ve ever cried while writing out a description of a movie scene)

This scene, perhaps more than any, highlights the contrast of Jojo’s perspective and the horrors of the real world, and Jojo can no longer look away.

War

Some time passes. Jojo and Elsa live their lives at Jojo’s home. Eventually, Jojo learns that Hitler’s committed suicide, and his town is invaded by the allies. The last and most significant of the contrasts is found with Fraulein Rahm. She’s doing her oafish bloodthirsty Nazi schtick, and is subsequently blown up by a bomb. The idea that this explosive death might itself be a gag is disproven by the following moment, as the smoke from the explosion dominates the frame and leaves Jojo horrified and confused.

“I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.”

Something important about Jojo Rabbit is that it does not condemn childlike imagination and whimsy in and of itself. It condemns its misuse and the denial of its proper use.  The film may contrast the whimsical elements with horrifying reality, but this horrifying reality is highlighting the truth that the whimsy was being used to cover up. It was being used to lie to Jojo, and he confronts this lie by way of confronting the imaginary Hitler.

At the end of the film, after the allies have won, and he and Elsa go out to the street and dance. But before this, he has a talk with his old imaginary best friend. While confronting this imaginary Hitler, this imaginary interpretation of the man who lied to him, the imaginary interpretation of the man who killed his mother, he doesn’t respond to this with a harsh reality.

Instead, he responds to his childish idolatry of Hitler with a childish hatred. Jojo kicks the sniveling, imaginary coward in the groin and right out a window, the way that I used to fight imaginary bad guys as a power ranger when I was four.

There’s nothing wrong with this. Jojo certainly seemed to be on a bad path, but his aversion to killing innocents from the get-go clearly indicated that his childish idolatry would have never become anything more. Whether or not it was Rosie hanging up there, he eventually would have looked. He eventually would have realized the horrifying reality of the situation before it was too late for him. Jojo was never going to be a Nazi.

And because Jojo acknowledged that, because he looked, he’s allowed to have that childish fantasy of saying “fuck off Hitler” before kicking him out a window.

And as long as we don’t forget the horrifying reality, we’re allowed to enjoy this imaginary child’s imaginary catharsis.