One of the key elements of film noir is a downbeat ending that is so cynical, it turns its story into an oddly entertaining exercise in fatalism. It seems counter intuitive that the audience would enjoy such a dark end for its protagonists, but, somehow, the inevitability of failure in these films can be surprisingly satisfying.
In these tales of greed, lust, and murder, we are reminded at their conclusion of the importance (and pragmatism) of a virtuous life. There are a few exceptions to this rule; films whose finales are so maliciously misanthropic that the audience is left feeling disturbed and depressed. More notable examples of this are Sunset Blvd, Out of the Past, and Gun Crazy. But perhaps the most openly malevolent is Fritz Lang’s Scarlet Street.
Like many other films of the genre, Scarlet Street revolves around an everyman drawn into a shady scheme by a beautiful yet dangerous woman. It’s a familiar formula but rarely is it so gleefully perverse, first with its casting. Our protagonist is a mild-mannered, unhappily married bank clerk named Christopher Cross and played by Edward G. Robinson. To cast a reliable tough guy like Robinson in such a simpering, milquetoast role is itself evidence of a certain playfulness on the part of the director. Cross is so beaten down by life that not only is he completely dominated by his battle-axe wife but frequently while wearing a flowery apron and carrying a feather duster.
Things don’t improve when a sultry woman named Kitty (Joan Bennett) walks into his life, capturing his attention and loyalty. That such a beautiful woman would give him the time of day at all does not give him a boost of confidence but, instead, someone new to worship. Kitty takes full advantage of Cross’ position at the bank to get a little money for herself, egged on by her real boyfriend, Johnny (a devilish Dan Duryea). As is required in film noir, plans go awry, the truth is revealed, and hearts are broken. It all ends, as it inevitably must, in tragedy.
It is in this final development that Scarlet Street really distinguishes itself among its peers. While we are certainly expecting a dark ending, Fritz Lang turns the cliches on their head and crafts a finale so unsettling that it haunts us long after the film is over. Yes, we expect the guilty to be punished, but not to punish themselves. And when the characters whose comeuppance we’ve so desperately wanted throughout the film finally get it, it is in a way that is not only unsatisfying, but disturbing. This film is not interested in a tidy resolution, in which all the loose ends are tied up and we can easily move on. It is more interested in showing us the true consequences of evil. They are messy, violent, and inescapable. While most film noir is content to merely show us the sinful nature of man, Scarlet Street wants us to feel it. Every oppressive, inevitable, heartbreaking part of it. We certainly do feel it, and it shakes us to our core.
When we think of romantic movies, our mind will drift immediately to stories about a new, budding relationship. The excitement that comes with discovery and bonding, along with the complications and misunderstandings that go with it, naturally lends itself to conventional story structure. There are some films, however, that find romance in familiarity; long-lasting relationships that may not hold much mystery, but depict an ongoing commitment and the conscious renewal of love. These films often contain a playful shorthand between its lovers, as their years together have engendered a quiet, unselfconscious comfort with themselves and each other. Perhaps one of the most delightful and enduring film couples is Nick and Nora Charles in W.S. Van Dyke’s The Thin Man.
Based on the Dashiel Hammett novel, The Thin Man has all the trappings of a typical whodunnit. A murder is committed, everyone is a suspect, and only a savvy detective can solve the mystery. And while most of Hammett’s sleuths are hard boiled tough guys, this murder is tackled by high spirited, upper class Nick Charles (William Powell) and his charming wife Nora (Myrna Loy). Though Nick is the detective of record, Nora certainly plays her part in his investigation, as both confidant and muse.
Nick and Nora are unique in the world of detective fiction. While most investigators in these books are lone wolves, often living sad, solitary lives, Nick Charles not only has a constant companion, but one that he obviously loves very much. And lest we think Nora is nothing more than a doting, loyal wife, the film goes out of its way – in its writing, acting, and visual aesthetic – to make sure that we know that she is as vital a part of this story as her husband. Much has been made of their cavalier attitude towards the murder, to the extent that they seem not to care about it. This is certainly not true. They care very much about bringing the murderer to justice. They simply care about each other more.
It would have been easy to downplay Nora in the book-to-film adaptation, but the writers (themselves a husband and wife team) understand the narrative value of giving the protagonist a partner; someone that can keep him both sharp and humble. It is this dynamic that really separates The Thin Man from its peers. And indeed, it’s what brought audiences back to see the movie’s four sequels, all of which featured William Powell and Myrna Loy.
One would be hard-pressed to find a more natural onscreen chemistry than Powell and Loy. Going into The Thin Man, it is immediately obvious that Nick and Nora have been together – happily – for years. The casual body language, the breezy line delivery, and the subtle facial exchanges all add up to actors – and by extension, characters – that are so at ease with each other that they feel real; as though, at any moment, they could turn to us and invite us to dinner. It is one of those rare instances where the characters are so connected to the actors that it’s impossible to think of anybody else playing them. Philip Marlowe, Hercule Poirot, and Sherlock Holmes have been played by multiple actors over the years, but there is only one Nick and Nora.
These characters are so unique, and their dynamic so uncommon, that they deserve to be mentioned in the discussion of the best onscreen couples in film history. That they are able to accomplish this in the midst of an engaging whodunit speaks not only to the strength of the characters, but the enduring nature of their marriage. It is familiar, loyal, and playful, but it is also extremely romantic, as it shows that it is absolutely possible for us not only to fall in love, but to stay there, no matter what genre we are in.
They say that good artists copy and great artists steal. While there may not seem to be much of a difference in these ideas, artistically, the distinction is vital. One describes mimicry while the other describes absorption. There have been many films that have tried to capture the stylistic elements of certain popular movies, but they often do so without understanding the essence of these films. As such, while they might be a perfect facsimile of the original material, they prove to be empty, and are quickly forgotten. One need only look at the series of hip, edgy crime movies that were released after Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction to see what I’m talking about. This is ironic, as Tarantino is a great example of an artist who steals, absorbing influences and seamlessly incorporating them into a fresh and original work of art.
I’m sure that director Zack Snyder thinks of himself as a Tarantino type, blending together his various influences into a wholly new thing, but he would be very wrong. In point of fact, Snyder is not only a copier, but he is the worst kind: one with a complete lack of self awareness. He clumsily cobbles together elements of other movies without ever even having the decency to give the audience a knowing wink. A slight smirk can allow the audience to forgive any number of transgressions. But Zack Snyder is not the smirking type. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he has shown himself to be very possibly the most humorless director working today. His films are not only serious, but self-serious. And there are few things more insufferable than a self-serious copy.
Snyder’s latest film, Rebel Moon: Part One – A Child of Fire, is a shameless patchwork of every major fantasy franchise of the last twenty years. These elements are smashed together so obviously, so haphazardly, so artlessly that the final film begins to look like Frankenstein’s monster. Not the kindly, misunderstood monster played by Borus Karloff; the one that gleefully strangles little children. Similarly, this film chokes the audience, shoving recognizable stylistic, narrative, and thematic elements down its throat in the hopes that these will all somehow taste good together. But, in the end, it’s just like peanut butter and pizza; two familiar favorites that, when slapped together, become both unwieldy and unpalatable. The story ultimately boils down to a Starwars-like riff on the Akira Kurosowa film Seven Samurai, with a greedy galactic empire descending upon a small farming community, demanding a large portion of their crops. The community attempts to defy their oppressors by turning to a small band of hard-bitten outcasts to defend them.
There is nothing wrong with tackling the story and structure of Seven Samurai, it’s been done countless times before, from the Magnificent Seven to A Bug’s Life. Unfortunately, Snyder does nothing new with the formula, choosing instead to smother it in the iconography, characters, and sometimes even specific camera shots of other films. With so many uninspired elements to the film, suddenly the decision to follow the Seven Samurai model no longer feels bold, but perfunctory. Like the decision to have a cigarette after finding out you have cancer; the damage has been done, so who cares?
Of course, with unique characters played by talented actors delivering memorable dialogue can go a long way in allowing us to accept even the most unoriginal material. Sadly, though Snyder has put together a very capable cast of actors, he leaves them stranded playing characters that struggle to be two dimensional and dialogue that is mind-numbingly basic, almost to the point of parody. Whenever a character unironically speaks the phrase “we are humble farmers,” you know you’re not dealing with the most scintillating of material.
As one might expect, the visual effects are astounding, but to what end? In this case, the more impressive the aesthetic, the more disappointing that it’s wasted on such an insipid film. Snyder has always had a strong command of the visual aspect of his films. His films can usually be counted on to look dazzling, even when there is nothing notable underneath. Somehow, though, I’m reluctant to say that Zack Snyder is a “style over substance” kind of guy. These films are not formalistic exercises. The sad fact is that he desperately wants to make movies of substance, but can’t quite grasp how.
When looking at a film like Rebel Moon, one wonders how Snyder keeps getting work. It is probably a function of his films making a lot of money (even if the crowd rarely leaves energized by what they just watched) and his being a remarkably nice guy. By all accounts, he is easy and encouraging to work with. And, while I rarely like his films, there is no denying that he is a true auteur. He makes the movies he wants to make the way he wants to make them. He always follows his muse. Yes, that muse may lead him headlessly towards the work of far more skilled filmmakers, he can only hope to emulate, but it does exist, and as long as it does, he will follow.
When looking at a list of the most popular Christmas movies, it may come as a surprise – though perhaps it shouldn’t – that many of them contain an element of magic. From time traveling ghosts to living snowmen to basically everything associated with Santa Claus, the supernatural has always played a vital part in Christmas narratives. This makes sense, as the story of the birth of Jesus, the proverbial “reason for the season,” is one of miracles and wonders.
However, even for those of us that follow Christ, this does not necessarily reflect our yearly Christmas experience. Much as we may enjoy the more fanciful of pop culture holiday offerings, much of our season is made up of family interaction (both good and bad), tacky decorations, gift-giving, and lots of food. There are a handful of Christmas movies that depict this, but even most of them seem to exist in a heightened reality. Kevin McCallister and Clark Griswold might appear to live in the everyday world but the stories they are in would suggest otherwise. No, when it comes to messy, grounded depictions of the holiday, only Bob Clark’s A Christmas Story manages to create a reality that is so palpable that we feel like we can step into the frame ourselves and partake.
Not to suggest that the film is striving for cold objectivity. Far from it. This film is extremely subjective, filtering the story through the eyes of a child. Or, more specifically, a kid; a plain ol’ middle-class kid. Thus to the degree that the film is heightened, it is such in a way that a kid’s perspective on the world is heightened. Adults that seem aggressively intimidating and daydreams that are hilariously on-the-nose are just a couple of the ways the film recreates a childhood that is both specific and broad at the same time. This is helped along by the wry narration of Jean Shepherd (whose work the film is adapted from), who always points out the details that only a little boy would notice.
That little boy is Ralphie Parker (Peter Billingsley), who lives in an unnamed Midwestern city with his parents and his little brother. His low stakes holiday adventures are blown up to epic proportions, with something as innocuous as helping his father change a tire becoming an event of dire significance when a certain four-lettered word accidentally escapes Ralphie’s lips. This along with neighborhood confrontations, double-dog dares, and a belligerent department store Santa make what would appear to be a fairly uneventful Christmas season into a life-changing journey. But all that pales in comparison to Ralphie’s obsession with getting a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas. Despite numerous warnings given by every major authority figure in his life, Ralphie spends every moment (waking or otherwise) thinking about that gun. It consumes him.
With so many classic Christmas movies actively decrying the commercialism of the season, it seems strange to center so much of this film around a single present. After all, Christmas is supposed to be about people, not things. And love, not desire. Of course, that is a very adult way of thinking. Thankfully, this movie is too smart to project that onto our main character. This film understands that, to a kid, a toy is rarely just a toy. It is something that can unlock their imagination and to receive one is to be given a gift so much larger than the thing itself. Getting this kind of present can also create a bond with the giver, especially if it is against the rules to give it. Ralphie’s father knows that a BB gun is probably not the safest thing to give his son, but he does it anyway. He gives it to see the smile on his boy’s face and to know that, for a fleeting moment, he was able to make his son happy.
This is a motivation that I have only recently begun to understand in the last few years. And I think that’s what makes this film so timeless. Younger people will see themselves in Ralphie. But as they get older and become parents themselves, they begin to have more in common with his parents. The joy of receiving is soon replaced with the joy of giving. To experience both is an amazing blessing in this life.
It may not be supernatural, but it is no less magical.
As the song says, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. For some, however, it is exactly the opposite. It is a time of increased stress, resentment, and depression. A time of year that was previously associated with ideas like ‘peace on earth and good will toward men’ has very quickly become synonymous with shopping, obligation, and deadlines. In the midst of all this hustle and bustle, the origins of Christmas can begin to fade from view; turning the holiday into one of weariness instead of hope. It would seem strange to base an animated children’s TV special around these very grown up ideas, and stranger still that this special would go on to become a perennial Christmas favorite, beloved by kids and adults alike. But Bill Melendez’s A Charlie Brown Christmas manages to pull all of this off in a way that has much more resonance with audiences than even some of the most sentimental dramas.
The story—which is really more of a series of vignettes—would appear simple, but is actually surprisingly complex. A young boy named Charlie Brown is having a hard time making merry himself at Christmas. Observing the increasing commercialism of the holiday, along with the perfunctory traditions that go along with it, Charlie Brown makes it his mission to discover “what Christmas is all about.” Along the way he is met with cynical attitudes, opportunistic schemes, and empty symbolism. The rest of his community appears to be perfectly fine with the vanishing of their Christmas spirit, but Charlie Brown soldiers on, feeling confident that the true meaning of Christmas is real and worth searching for.
And search he does, asking friends and family (even his pet dog) their opinions about the holiday season. He is continually disappointed, however, as, over and over, his cynicism is confirmed. Money, presents, decorations and all the other superficial elements of Christmas seem to be all that anyone cares about. Charlie Brown becomes the director of the local Christmas play, hoping that this will reignite his holiday spirit, only to find that the stress and pressure of the project just make things worse. It turns out that the Christmas spirit is not something that can be manufactured; it is something to be experienced naturally, which makes it frustratingly elusive.
Finally, Charlie Brown throws up his hands in exasperation, yelling the question, “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?!” His friend Linus calmly takes center stage and quietly recounts the angels’ message to the shepherds about the promise of Jesus. One might expect this moment to be full of sentiment, bolstered by increasingly inspirational music but it is not. It is simple and straightforward, allowing Charlie Brown and the audience to quietly contemplate Linus’ words. At first, Charlie Brown seems mildly satisfied at best. But soon the full weight of the Christmas story–which is about reconciliation and redemption–begins to take hold. This is seen when the puny Christmas tree that Charlie Brown has picked out is at first mocked by his peers but is soon transformed into a beautiful display. And what was responsible for the transformation? As Linus says, “A little love.”
It is all so deceptively simple. The animation, the voice acting and the dialogue would appear to be something out of a middling kids’ Christmas special. But underneath it all is something that only becomes more resonant the older the audience gets. Christmas is a promise of hope and redemption. No matter how alone we feel or how melancholy, there is always the possibility of renewal and transformation. None of us is beyond redemption. We can change. All because God looked at us in all of our brokenness and said, “Maybe it just needs a little love.”
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With Thanksgiving now over, the Christmas season has officially begun. We all know what this means: trees, lights, presents, carols, and all the other holiday trappings that emerge every December. All of us have different Christmas traditions like parties, dinners, and games. There is one thing, however, that seems to grow a little bit with each passing holiday season: the importance of Christmas movies—Those films that warm our hearts, and bring us tidings of comfort and joy every year.
There are thousands of Christmas-themed movies out there, but we seem to return only to a select few; movies we look forward to watching that are waiting to welcome us with open arms. Certain movies have become such a staple of the season that we can hardly imagine a Christmas without them. It’s a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, and White Christmas, are a few of the classics. Later additions to the Christmas canon would include A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, The Muppet Christmas Carol, Home Alone, and TheNightmare Before Christmas. More recent films like Love Actually, Elf, and The Polar Express have become essential viewing during the Holidays. That is to say nothing of the various TV specials that continue to air decades after they were produced.
What is it about these movies that make them so memorable? It can’t merely be that they take place around Christmas, otherwise there would be a lot more low-quality movies on our Holiday watchlist every year. The elements that set these movies apart run much deeper than the basic iconography of the season. These are films that have several emotional components that resonate with us, both individually and culturally, on a personal level.
The first distinguishing factor is perhaps the least surprising: sentimentality. Every Christmas film is at least a little bit sentimental, plucking at the viewer’s heartstrings in an attempt to make a real emotional connection with them.
However, just because every film features this, that doesn’t mean that they all get it right. On the contrary, the vast majority of Christmas movies are either inauthentic or sappy. In the former instance, the sentiment is only skin deep, a cynical attempt to capitalize on the audience’s eagerness for connection, ultimately feeling artificial and unearned. Other movies, however, will lay the sentimentality on so thick, it appears their goal is to simply smother the audience in emotionality until it finally relents and embraces the movie. These films may be effective for a time, but they rarely have staying power. Authentic sentimentality is achieved through a mixture of relatable characters, inspiring story, and timeless message. All of this underlined with heightened visuals and a musical score that is informed by the characters’ emotions instead of trying to dictate them. These movies work because they understand the innate sentimentality of the season that each viewer brings to the film, and attempt to engage with that.
Much of this sentimentality comes about naturally as a function of the second key component: a true sense of community. For most, Christmas is a very relational holiday. It is about uniting with family and friends in celebration. This inherent understanding inspires us to be more loving, more grateful, and more forgiving than we otherwise would be. As such, the best Christmas films often conclude with the main character embracing a new community or recognizing the one that was there the whole time. Sometimes it’s a few friends and other times, it’s a whole town. No matter the specifics the main character—and the viewer—feel a little bit less alone by the end.
This sense of aloneness is surprisingly prevalent in these films and it will lead us into the final element that we find in all of the best Christmas movies: darkness. It may seem counterintuitive that this would play such a vital role in movies associated with the most wonderful time of the year, but it may well prove to be the key ingredient to making these stories work. This darkness manifests itself in any number of ways. It could be the hardness of heart of certain characters. It could be familial estrangement. And sometimes its the pain of living in an increasingly cynical world. Given these unfortunate circumstances it is understandable why some might shrink away from ideas like love, generosity, and joy, choosing instead to embrace this melancholy and adopt an attitude of self-protection. Characters like Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch have become so suspicious of happiness that they actively work to keep themselves miserable. George Bailey and Charlie Brown, shunned by their respective communities, experience existential despair. Clark Griswold and Jack Skellington obsessively attempt to harness the Christmas spirit, only to fall into a deep depression when they can’t. These are just a few of the examples of the bleakness we can find in Christmas movies.
Thankfully, the overriding message of the Christmas season is that darkness does not get to have the last word. Christmas is about forgiveness, redemption, and hope, embodied by Jesus’ birth. And whether these films are overtly Christian or not, they understand the necessity of light come from darkness to give us a second chance at being the people we were meant to be. Out of this comes a sense of community rooted in the understanding that we all need saving, we all need redemption, and that Jesus came to give us that gift. Embracing the joy that comes from this understanding can lead to feelings of sentimentality; about family, about friends, and about the desperate hope that tomorrow can be better than today. Any other time of the year this sentiment might make us cringe, but at Christmas it all seems possible, maybe even probable. The best Christmas movies remind us of this. Which is why we return to them every year, to re-affirm that hope is not some trifling thing, but an essential part of what makes us human.
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In film critic terminology, the word “genre” has a very specific meaning. While for many people the word is synonymous with “category”, for film fans it has a very deliberate purpose. It is a way to classify films based on how they look and what they are about. Any commonality between films could mean that they are part of the same genre. Film genres are often predictable, which makes them evergreen. When watching a Western, we have a pretty good idea of how it will end, whether it was made in 1935 or 2015.
One film genre, however, is such a product of its time that it might also be considered a film movement, like Italian Neo-Realism or French Impressionism. These movements and others were often either shaped by or a response to world events of their era. As such, as those eras came to an end, so too did these film movements. The same could also be said for Film Noir, a genre that was so associated with post-WWII America that after it began to fade out in the late 1950’s, only a handful of studios and filmmakers have attempted to revive it to varying degrees of success.
Beginning in the early 1940’s, but really starting to bloom after the war, Film Noir reflected the dark, fatalistic underbelly of a by-all-appearances optimistic America having not only been on the winning side of the war, but also a decade-long economic depression, the United States was flying high. But the war and all its evils would not be forgotten, no matter how big the smiles on returning soldier’s faces. The horrendous nature of war, combined with the monstrous realities of the Holocaust and the Atomic Bomb, certainly left their mark, as evidenced not only by the cynical nihilism of Film Noir, but also in the surprising popularity of it. These were films that questioned the feasibility of the American Dream, ultimately acknowledging the true nightmare that lay beneath.
The characters that populate these movies are deeply world-weary, having been burned a few too many times by this hard ol’ world. With their heads down and their collars up, they walk the streets alone, usually by choice. Having been taken advantage of one too many times, their trust in other people has slowly evaporated, until the only person they look out for is themselves, often at the great expense of other people. And in those rare moments when they do dare to dream, the harsh realities of the world quickly intervene, punishing them for ever having hoped in the first place.
Given the oppressive themes of Film Noir, one could be forgiven for assuming that these films are very dour and difficult to watch. But, in what might be the sickest twist of the genre, these films are surprisingly entertaining. Watching these characters navigate a labyrinthine plot, trying to outwit each other, all while exchanging razor sharp insults and witty threats, is one of the most enjoyable experiences a film lover can have. And rewatching these films can yield one reward after another.
Contributing to the pleasure (and re-watchability of these movies) is a unique sense of style. Heavily influenced by the German Expressionism of the 1920’s, these films do not take place in a recognizable reality. Instead, we are brought into a world of concrete and rain; a cold and impersonal place where the sun never shines and nobody can be trusted. Dark shadows slice through the scenery at angles designed to heighten paranoia and conceal all manners of evil. The men are clad in raincoats and fedoras and the women in gorgeous dresses. They smoke cigarettes and carry revolvers. It is a place that the viewer is excited to spend time in but might be even more excited to leave.
Our characters, however, cannot leave. Their lives are cautionary tales to those of us who might feel that we are owed happiness by this world. They are trapped in a shadowy urban hell, fated to pursue a dream that is promised but forever out of reach.
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Few things are more frustrating for a film critic than having to review a movie that is “for the fans.” While many films made with a built-in fan base try to be accessible enough to bring in a wider audience, some of these films have no such ambition. They are content to appeal only to their pre-existing audience, usually at the expense of coherent storytelling and fully- developed characters. Emma Tammi’s Five Nights at Freddy’s is based on a very popular video game franchise and, it would appear, has no desire to move beyond that. Characters make winking references and the camera will linger over certain images in a way that suggests meaning without ever going to the trouble of actually creating any.
The story begins with world-weary Mike (Josh Hutcherson) struggling to take care of his younger sister Abby (Piper Rubio). With the parents out of the picture, Mike fights against his unsympathetic aunt (Mary Stuart Masterson) to retain custody, which is hanging by a thread after he loses his job. Now desperate, Mike hastily takes a job as a night watchman at an out-of-business pizza place called Freddy Fazbear’s. Once famous for games, prizes, and, most notably, animatronic creatures that perform for the audience, Freddy’s has been slowly decaying after going under decades earlier. The job seems simple enough but becomes lethally complicated as Mike discovers that the animatronics have a life of their own and have no reservations about brutally killing anybody they deem a threat. Mike’s investigation into this strange situation eventually leads him to a series of unsolved child abductions that occurred years before.
In simply describing the plot, we already run into a fatal flaw of the film: an overly-convoluted storyline. “Killer robots run amok” is a premise that writes itself. It hits the basic beats of realization, survival, resistance, and victory. The specifics may be different, but checking off these simple story points is really all one needs to create a perfectly satisfying horror movie. Westworld, The Terminator, and even Chopping Mall understood this, but it apparently eludes Five Nights at Freddy’s which adds a supernatural element that it neither fully grasps nor knows what to do with. This lack of understanding also applies to the robots themselves, which veer drastically from monstrous to sympathetic based on the needs of the scene, creating a “have its cake and eat it, too” quality that leaves the audience wondering what it’s supposed to feel.
All of this confusion might well come from the film’s uncertainty about what it’s supposed to be. It clearly desires to be a frightening horror movie, while simultaneously trying to appeal to a younger audience. These conflicting goals regularly trip each other up, resulting in a film that is perhaps too intense for kids but far too tame for adults. It is a classic blunder made by too many mainstream films: trying to do so many things that it eventually accomplishes none.
Of course, for some, the mere existence of the film is accomplishment enough. To certain Freddy’s fans, inconsistent stories and contradictory tones matter infinitely less than the mere fact that their favorite game has been adapted into a film. This is the ultimate good that excuses all evils and perhaps this is what the studio was banking on when it decided to produce such a mediocre movie; brand loyalty, lowered expectations, and blind acceptance on the part of the audience.
Most Horror Movies that feature an outlandish story contain heavily-stylized worlds and characters, meant to elicit terror and dread from the audience. Many of the best films in the genre are so drenched in atmosphere that, while undeniably frightening, they clearly don’t take place in a recognizable world. This stylization is so associated with horror, that those few movies that strive for realism can be a little jarring. What might seem impossible can become eerily feasible in these types of films. Such seems to be the organizing principle of William Friedkin’s 1973 classic The Exorcist.
Set in Georgetown, the story revolves around a single mother (Ellen Burstyn) and her young daughter (Linda Blair), who begins to display bizarre and self-destructive behavior. After speaking to several doctors and therapists, it is eventually determined that the little girl is possessed by a demon. To fight this evil entity, the mother calls in a professional exorcist (Max von Sydow) and a younger priest (Jason Miller). The spiritual battle that ensues is as unblinking as it is terrifying.
Normally, a film about demons and devils is made with stylistic flourishes to better capture the surreal nature of the story. Friedkin’s brilliance is in understanding that spiritual explanations are more harrowing when they are earned. The various medical tests that the little girl endures take up a good portion of the film, as if Friedkin is saying “See? I’m doing everything I can to rule out the supernatural.” By the time we arrive at a spiritual conclusion, we do so because, like the characters, we are left with no other explanation. This methodical approach to the problem, both on the part of the director and the protagonist, is what sells the sensationalism required to tell a spiritual story. And the film is much more frightening as a result. Because everything just seems horribly logical.
And indeed the things that we see and hear in this movie are so extremely graphic, they border on the obscene. Christians certainly think so. Ever since the film’s release, people have been warning viewers about the potential demonic influence that The Exorcist can have. Young and old alike have kept their distance from this movie, to avoid any risk to their spiritual and mental health.
THE EXORCIST, Linda Blair, 1973. (c) Warner Bros./ Courtesy: Everett Collection.
While I do understand that demonic possession films – and horror movies in general – are not for everybody, I think it is unfortunate that so many have completely dismissed this movie as having no redeeming value, often without even seeing it. Yes, this may be a film that depicts some of the most blasphemous interactions in the history of film, but it doesn’t do so lightly. Far from being exploitative, the movie is a thoughtful – if not downright meditative – exploration of good and evil. And this is no bland, generic, non-committal version of either one, but is very specifically Christian in its concepts and terminology. The demon is not compelled by some vague sense of goodness; it is compelled by the power of Christ. This carries on to the film’s climax, which some might view as a loss, but astute viewers can easily associate with the nature of Christ’s sacrifice.
In the end, The Exorcist is an uncompromising film, just as memorable for its drama as it’s horror. It desires to be sincerely engaged with the spiritual concepts it contains. This is why the film has remained a staple in the world of horror – and indeed the world of cinema – for decades. It manages to successfully be what so many horror movies have no interest in. It is both terrifying and meaningful.
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Few things are more heartbreaking for film fans than when a bold, exciting director starts to phone it in, at which point their once-innovative work loses its novelty and becomes “by-the-numbers”. A prime example of this is Tim Burton, whose early film can only be described as visionary but eventually became perfunctory. For the last twenty years, Burton’s films have lacked the mischievous tone, inspired world-building, and heartfelt compassion of his earlier work. There was once a time when the announcement of a Tim Burton film would be met with giddy anticipation instead of an apathetic shrug. And rightfully so. These early films were made with the manic joy of a director who can’t believe how much he is getting away with. And indeed, in retrospect, it is mind-blowing to think that any studio gave him the opportunity to make films of such grotesque beauty, off-kilter melancholy, and disconcerting tone.
No movie better encapsulates the go-for-broke, kitchen sink nature of Burton’s earlier work than Beetlejuice. While he would go on to explore sentimentality in films like Edward Scissorhands and Ed Wood, he had no such aspirations with Beetlejuice. This film is Burton at his most gleefully unhinged. The story begins with a young couple, Adam and Barbara (Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis), getting in a tragic car accident and returning to their home as ghosts, unable to escape. Their situation might not be so awful if not for the family that moves into the house, unaware that it is essentially haunted. Though the family would seem to be postmodern yuppies, the daughter (Winona Ryder) has such a morose outlook on life that not only does she feel distant from her parents, but she also is the only one that can see the ghostly couple. Adam and Barbara make several attempts to drive the living family from their home, but find that scaring people is not their fortè. Desperate, they turn to a self-proclaimed “bio-exorcist” named Beetlejuice (Michael Keaton), whose wacky hijinks disguise a much more malevolent personality.
In what would become commonplace in Burton’s films, the story is less important than the atmosphere and visuals. Inspired heavily by the German Expressionism of the 1920s, Burton’s movies have always contained a deeply skewed vision of the world. Sort of like a nightmarish Doctor Seuss. In this film Burton creates an afterlife that is both hilarious and disturbing. A bureaucratic office filled with ghoulish creatures and mangled bodies, this world would not seem to contain a single straight line or right angle. Instead there is a swirling, surreal quality to it all. This place may be absurdly funny, but to spend any time there is to soon feel uneasy.
The overall tone of the film is one that can only be described as madness. Just like our main characters, we are abruptly moved from one crazy situation to another, trying and failing to keep up. There is an overwhelming element to the film that makes it all seem… unsafe. The recklessness of the film’s pace creates a nervous energy that is enhanced (or made worse, depending how you look at it) by Michael Keaton’s mile-a-minute line delivery, non-existent attention span, and lascivious looks. Think of Robin Williams’ Genie from Aladdin, except he hates you.
When considering all of this, it becomes clear that Beetlejuice is a young man’s film. It feels as though it were made by someone who isn’t sure they’ll ever be allowed near a camera again, so they throw as much onto the screen as they can. Burton makes several risky choices in this film; the same types of choices that he would avoid later in his career. As with so many other quirky filmmakers, the audience eventually got used to Burton’s style. By the mid-2000s, the novelty had worn off, and Burton made no attempts to challenge himself. Rather than make choices that he was passionate about, he instead made those that were expected of him. It’s always sad to see for a film fan. Thankfully, though, we will always have those early films, with their sincere melancholy, delightful chaos, and horrendous beauty; three things that Beetlejuice has in abundance.
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