(US/UK 1980 146m) DVD1 (114m only on DVD2)
Redrum…redrum…redrum…
p/d Stanley Kubrick w Stanley Kubrick, Diane Johnson novel Stephen King ph John Alcott ed Ray Lovejoy m Bela Bartok, Wendy/Walter Carlos, Rachel Elkind, Gyorgi Ligeti, Krzysztof Penderecki art Roy Walker, Leslie Tomkins
Jack Nicholson (Jack Torrence), Shelley Duvall (Wendy Torrence), Danny Lloyd (Danny Torrence), Scatman Crothers (Dick Hallorann), Barry Nelson (Stuart Ullman), Philip Stone (Delbert Grady), Joseph Turkel (Lloyd, the barman), Anne Jackson (doctor),
Of all the puzzling enigmas at the heart of Kubrick’s bona fide horror masterpiece, the biggest that still plagues me is rather why he saw fit to shorten the film for its UK release from the version that showed elsewhere. In the UK it is only shown in the full 2½ hour version on TCM, Kubrick himself having had control over his movies in the UK (which of course allowed him to withdraw A Clockwork Orange so famously). At the time of its release, like Barry Lyndon before it, it was roundly misunderstood and jeered; critics and audiences expected a horror movie and a transcription of King’s novel. They failed to understand that source novels are merely the bare bones upon which Kubrick fleshes out his movies with something deeper that interests him more. What is so baffling is that the shorter version, though tighter, misses a pivotal early sequence with Lloyd, Duvall and Jackson’s psychiatrist, which at least goes some way to explaining one aspect of the piece, if not remotely all.
Jack Torrence is a recovering alcoholic who has had trouble in the past getting started on writing a novel and has come to the Rocky Mountain resort of the Overlook Hotel to become the site’s new winter caretaker during the off-season. He brings with him his wife and his young son, Danny, who unbeknownst to his parents, is possessed with a special gift of sight which the hotel chef, also a possessor of the ability, is the only one to recognise. Jack slowly begins to feel at home at the hotel, and thinks he’s been there before, but the atmosphere proceeds to send him insane, much like a previous holder of the post, who killed his family several years earlier.
Much has been made of Kubrick’s use of imagery – with the legendary shot of Nicholson staggering through the wintry maze, the horrific flashes of events in Room 237, the hotel elevator gushing blood and the amazing overhead shot of Wendy and Danny at the heart of the maze, but the beauty is technical as much as aesthetic; the genius of the sequences of Danny on his toy tricycle on the noisy wooden and lino floors and the intermittent silence of the carpets is eerie in itself. Indeed, it’s a combination of pictures and noise that create a truly staggering sense of unease, coupled with Indian imagery that recall the hotel’s being built on an Indian burial ground, thus creating something akin to what Joss Whedon would later call a hellmouth, the epicentre of which seems to be the giant ballroom. There’s equal intricacy to be found in the mise-en-scene and camera movement, using many deliberately symmetrical shots with Jack often positioned just off to the left, and indeed the left (the evil side) is much in evidence; Danny riding his tricycle anti-clockwise, the blood gushing from the left of the elevator, Jack entering the ballroom by turning left. Kubrick is helped immensely by Walker’s incredible interiors and exteriors of the hotel, and by the performance of Nicholson at its centre. Yes, he’s over the top, but that’s the very point of his madness, and Kubrick is very careful to ensure that the manic glint in his eye, and the devilish raising of the eyebrows, are in evidence from the very beginning, as if emphasising the dark side is always ready to burst forth from within. It’s no coincidence that this was the Kubrick film that David Thomson – who dismissed Kubrick otherwise – loved, observing “the Overlook Hotel is not just a great set but a museum of movies waiting for ghostly inhabitants.” All of this, plus that memorably ambiguous final slow zoom into the haunting photo from 1921 and an unknowing reference to a triple Grand National winner. An epic horror movie in every way, it’s a film to make M.Night Shyamalan cover his hands in shame.
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I haven’t seen the shorter version so I can’t say for sure, but I believe Vincent LoBrutto states in his Kubrick biography that the edits were mostly to remove as many of the scenes that took place outside the Overlook Hotel as possible, including brief moments where Shelly Duvall watched television news reports, to increase the sense of isolation from civilization. Again, I haven’t seen the shorter version, but it sounds reasonable.
This is an expertly crafted movie, nearly perfect as an exercise in horror filmmaking. That said, I wouldn’t put it up on this list anywhere near this high, if at all. It might be Kubrick’s last almost flawlessly honed picture, but at the end of the day I don’t really see it as the best use of his gifts. It’s like hiring Michelangelo to come and paint your house– yeah, he’ll do a good job, but unless your house happens to be the Sistine Chapel, I’m not entirely certain if your patronage was worth his time.
All of his movies post-“Barry Lyndon” are entertaining, engaging and absolutely worth watching again and again, but I find myself more interested in the projects which fell by the wayside– “Wartime Lies”, the Holocaust-pic that “Schindler’s List” deflated his enthusiasm for; “A.I.”, the long-developed science-fiction epic that eventually wound up in the hands of Spielberg, for better or worse; and most of all, his fabled Napoleon film, which never even got off the ground enough for another director to inherit, after his death. Perhaps it’s best to focus on the films he left behind, rather than the ones that didn’t get a chance. But I can’t help but wonder how much more we might’ve marveled at what may have been, instead of what merely is…
“It’s like hiring Michelangelo to come and paint your house– yeah, he’ll do a good job, but unless your house happens to be the Sistine Chapel, I’m not entirely certain if your patronage was worth his time.”
Very interesting point there Bob. I’m inclined to agree and to disagree. While THE SHINING did not place nearly as high on my own list as it did on Allan’s I can still marvel at the supreme artistry, regardless of the low-brow subject matter. And that’s not to disparage Stephen King, who was at the very least a superlative “storyteller,” regardless of what he lacked in literary terms. I actually can respect people who feel this may well be -against all odds- one of Kubrick’s greatest works, as “Anu” and “Dennis” do below. But again we can’t conclude that lesser material can’t make a supreme work in cinema….i.e. THE GODFATHER.
Don’t get me wrong, this is a fine film, and as I said before, Kubrick’s last really flawless effort (“Full Metal Jacket”? A great, energetic first half that flounders once it leaves Paris Island. “Eyes Wide Shut”? A worthy swan-song, a beauty to behold, but a little aimless). Still, I wish that this same creative drive had been applied to something like Napoleon, which in his body of work remains the one-that-got-away.
Part of the reason I’m not too enthused about this is I’m more or less indifferent to the horror genre, in general. I can appreciate it when applied to social-commentary (Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead” is often cited here, but I find it a little too jokey; the original “Night of the Living Dead” is all the more haunting, for me, because of how seriously it takes everything) or when envisioned with the helpful application of science-fiction (Cronenberg’s stuff really shines here because of that; when you introduce medical and technological science to your scares, it makes it all feel that much more plausible). Kubrick’s work here, of course, is just a ghost story and psychological thriller– done very well, obviously, but it’s not quite up my alley.
Incredible selection and one fitting for the top ten spot. I think The Shining was the best film of 1980 and for one of the first times in a while, I think Allan and I are on the same page. The film that Stanley Kubrick wanted to make was one that would be considered the scariest film ever made. Did he accomplish that goal? No, but he might have created maybe the most accessible horror film for film fans who never embraced the genre. I for one love the genre and feel this one of the major defining moments of it. It was one of the many great horror films of a decade that included great films from the genre like Sam Raimi’s over the top yet ultra cool Evil Dead films, Kathryn Bigelow’s great cult classic debut Near Dark, and all nearly all the great films released by David Cronenberg in the decade. But the Shinning has always been singled out and maybe that’s because the one behind the lens was none other than the man who had changed the face of almost every cinematic genre (2001 for sci-fi, Barry Lyndon for the period piece, Dr. Strangelove for Comedy etc.). The Shining is no different leaving behind some of the greatest and most iconic images in film history from the wave of blood making its way out of the elevator, the writing of redrum on the door, the strange and haunting recreation of Diane Arbus’ Identical Twins, and the typed pages with nothing more than: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” The Shining differs itself from many films of its genre because it abandons the idea for gore and violent sequences for slowly, meticulous use of sounds and images to build up suspense. Take for the example the scenes where Danny is riding his Big Wheel and we hear the sounds of him riding change as he rides from the carpet to the hard wood floors to the carpets again. the sounds are so strange yet we question are they even supposed to be. Kubrick has always been known for playing his audience’s emotions like a puppeteer controls his puppets. Even Kubrick’s choice not to film it in wide-screen to let the hotel become a character of the movie is a risky one but one that works for him. The way Overlook Hotel is shot sometimes reminds me of scenes of the chateau from Alain Resnais’s Last Year at Marienbad. Both films benefit from their settings becoming a characters in themselves and both hold mysterious secrets that have entranced film enthusiasts for years. But for as long as I’ve been talking about this film, I still haven’t even scratched the core of why this film ultimately succeeds. This is because the great Jack Nicholson takes another risk and creates another fascinating performance. He has had a reputation for playing a role sometimes with a bit too much energy, but here it pays off brilliantly. His Jack Torrence becomes worthy of Kubrick’s hall of fame of psychopaths which had already included HAL 9000 and Alex DeLarge. Nicholson has also been one of those rare actors that has worked with some of the greatest directors who ever lived from the likes of Michelangelo Antonioni (with whom he might have given one of the greatest performances ever in the Passenger), Roman Polanski to Milos Forman to Martin Scorsese; but his pairing with Kubrick seemed so perfect that it makes us question why it only lasted for one film. The Shining has been often been labeled as slow, yet the pacing if this film is what makes it work. The experience of being introduced to the hotel with the family and experiencing the strange events with them while they develop; its something that makes you fall in love with the film all over again.
Anu: This is the greatest comment you have ever posted at this site. Congratulations! Yes, in the horror genre, it’s a benchmark, and the various images you bring into focus, as well as the film’s superb components, define the essence here.
This is a review in and of itself and I’m tempted to highlight in in a separate post.
While I don’t deny this film being an “epic” horror film, it isn’t the first. Romero beat him to the punch with his great horror masterpiece Dawn of the Dead two years prior. But its interesting that we don’t see as many big grandiose films from the genre anymore. Now we see mostly trash from a genre that help launch great directors to fame from James Whales to Roman Polanski to David Cronenberg. Great films like The Host and Let the Right One In have been released recently giving me hope for the future. But i totally agree with you on Shelly Duvall’s wonderful performance. I feel awful for not mentioning her performance in my post and one that has an interesting story behind it. Duvall and Kubrick supposedly didn’t have a great working relationship and Kubrick pushed her to the limit. It shows and she sometimes gets overlooked as one of the best scream queens in cinema history. I also agree with the sexual undertones of the film. Kubrick even adds strange scenes sexual scenes involving a man performing fellatio in a bear suit and the infamous woman arising from the bathtub. The sexual imagery gives us unanswered questions that make us speculate the Overlook Hotel’s mysterious history.
I prefer ‘symphony of horror’ than ‘epic’ myself. Great point here again Anu.
I always got a laugh out of Stephen King’s castigation of this version and his satisfaction with the pedestrian television film. King wrote potboilers. Kubrick made masterpieces.
I hear ya Joe. Indeed!
The difference between Arbus and Kubrick is that Arbus’s images–although as far as possible from the slushy and sentimental–have a human eye and a beating heart. Kubrick was merely imitating the form, not the content. This is endemic with him. His films are so deeply intelligent, so immaculately produced, that it takes awhile for us to realize (and some never do) that he interprets and portrays emotional interaction between his puppets–excuse me, of course I mean, his characters–somewhat as a functioning autistic savant would do. The responses from his filmed “humans”, both individually and to each other, are so deeply unsettling because subconsciously we realize they are beautifully faked impostures far beyond most film conventions. It’s as though he doesn’t understand what humans feel, and so interprets them with a n obsessively controlled series of brilliant guesses coming from the darkest of places. We’re watching robots directed by a robotmaster. *Barry Lyndon* stands apart from the rest of Kubrick’s oeuvre because the “humans” actually appear to have blood in their veins. If I had to identify Kubrick’s main characteristics as a filmmaker, I’d mention his brilliance, his boldness, and his icy coldness.
Bravo Emdee! And welcome! The ‘icy cold’ characteristic of the filmmaker is of course his trademark, but I agree with the deserved hyperbole!
Rampant enthusiasm there Dennis. Always great to behold!
The ‘repeat-button’ argument is very persuasive Dennis.
I don’t have much intelligent insight to offer about the style and influence and place in Kubrick’s canon, but I just have to admit that this is without question the movie that still frightens me to no end. Doesn’t matter when or where I see it, I’m a complete wreck.
Better than “Raging Bull”? Maybe, but certainly not “Last Temptation”. Better than “Blue Velvet”? I personally disagree, but it’s interesting to note that Kubrick was heavily influenced by “Eraserhead” for this film, screening it for crewmembers to set the mood. I definitely feel it’s a crime to put this above “Blade Runner”. A triffle from Kubrick is still a triffle.
Actually, wasn’t it said that Nicholson disaproved of the way Kubrick treated castmembers during shooting, especially Scatman Crothers, who was forced to endure endlessly multiple takes of the axe-murder, a scene which was a great physical effort and painful for him to endure, until he finally broke down in tears? I remember reading in the LoBrutto book that Nicholson swore he’d never work with Kubrick again after that, but if he changed his mind before the end, that’d be interesting to know.
Though I don’t agree with this film being placed so high, I will say that there’s a big reason for its success which hasn’t really been addressed yet– the music. Kubrick was a master at needledrops, of course, finding just the right pre-existing piece of music to fit the scene he had in his head. Instead of asking a composer to write something original, he was always to find something that struck the right balance between unknown and familiar, and as such the pieces of music he chooses become linked to his films in a way that makes it difficult to separate the two.
Here, he really digs into some obscure and experimental work, including Ligeti, Bartok and reworking of Berlioz from Wendy Carlos. The unusual, yet still somehow classical-sound they convey really helps push the dread of the film– I’d say it’s just as important as Kubrick’s compositions and smooth Steadicam work here, if not moreso. Kubrick matches his images to music from these composers in such a way that the pieces effectively belong to the film, and just don’t work anymore in another context. That’s how I felt when Lynch sampled work by Krzysztof Penderecki throughout “Inland Empire”– thanks to its association with Kubrick’s film, it felt just as innapropriate as if he’d played a cue from John Williams.
Agreed Bob, Stanley’s “needle-dropping” is legendary. Guys like Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese owe a world of gratitude to Kubrick for taking the lead in that field.
To a certain extent, but in my opinion what Allen and Scorsese both do is far, far different. They each take famous pieces of music and mostly from the last century (Gershwin & Django Reinhardt, the Ronnettes & Clapton, with some CavPag thrown in) which becomes cultural signifiers as much as aesthetic choices. They place us in a specific time and place, instead of transporting us to completely alien environments. Kubrick’s musical choices weren’t always well known before he put them in his films (really, who knew “Thus Spake Zarathustra” before “2001”?) and the ones which were known became synonymous with their films (“Blue Danube”, anyone?) in a way that Allen and Scorsese never really achieved. But again, that’s not what they are aiming for.
Malick is also very good with music choices in his films. I find he is after the same effect Kubrick was.
PT Anderson seemed more of the Scorsese/Allen variety (as Bob differentiated so brilliantly) early in his career but with THERE WILL BE BLOOD seemed to have attempted a more Kubrickian sensibility to music.
I’ll have to take your word on Malick, as the only film of his I’m familiar with is “Days of Heaven”, where Ennio Morricone simply incorporates the Aquarium movement of Camille Saint-Saëns’ “The Carnival of Animals”, which doesn’t really strike me as being in the same league as Kubrick’s use of music. PTA’s “There Will Be Blood” was pretty powerful in its long stretches of almost industrial-sounding noise-suites, punctuating the two main peaks of the movie with Brahms. What makes Anderson’s selection so perfect is how ironic it is in both cases– the classical strings are a little self-consciously ill-fitting for the time period and the film’s mostly vacant soundtrack, and the upbeat music only becomes even more powerful at the thoroughly downbeat ending.
I’m not familiar with Malick’s canon, so I’m not really equipped to judge both of them, but what Anderson pulls off with the music in “There Will Be Blood” certainly outdoes “Days of Heaven”.
Bob – with Malick I am referring most specifically to his use of music in THE NEW WORLD, notably pieces by Wagner (Vorspiel Prelude) which is used as a motif over three visual and narrative montages (marking the beginning, middle, and end of the film) and a heavenly Mozart (piano concerto #23) which is used fittingly but anachronistically in a scene depicting John Smith’s “otherworldly” delight in living in the native camp. You are right about DAYS OF HEAVEN…I recall the music being “pretty” but not utilized on the same level as a Kubrick. I feel Malick has evolved in this regard.
For me, this is the greatest horror movie ever made.
Someone already touched on it….and it always makes my blood boil…that King was unable to recognize the artistry of Kubrick’s “interpretation” of his best-seller. I still cringe when I think about the sentimentality on display in the TV miniseries. It was abhorrent — and I respect King’s desire to see his true vision be display, but c’mon, man….you gotta recognize when someone has taken your “idea”, elaborated on your themes, interpreted them into another medium, and created something you never could have created. King should thankful — there has never been a greater film (or greater anything) with his name attached to it than this….a stone-cold Kubrick masterpiece of the highest order.
Dennis – LMAO! Right on.
I am going to be a bit of a naysayer on this film. From a formalist perspective the film’s great strengths can scarcely be denied. And it is always a compelling watch on re-viewing. At the same time is it really that much more than stock horror once one gets past Kubrick’s technical virtuosity? 1980 is rather late in the day for a film to be an original horror film in any case. The only reason I even bring this up is because the director under discussion is Kubrick and the bar is therefore higher. Even if the director has never been one of my favorites and barring 2001 I consider every single film of his overrated for one reason or another. These certainly seem cold films to me; the visual grammar, the sound cues are always impressive and yet something is always missing in these films. With perhaps a degree of confusion evident more often than not. I am often not clear about ‘meaning’ in Kubrick’s films.
Kaleem Hassan, you’ve touched on an essential weakness in Kubrick’s films. As I posted earlier (for some reason it appeared under the name “Embee”, which I no longer use) Kubrick’s films dazzle us with their production values, but his characters always ring hollow: they’re brilliantly faked case histories, as though they’d been painstakingly assembled by an autistic savant who can only make dark guesses at what humans think or feel. Icy coldness does not equal clarity.
In regard to everyone’s thorough dumping on the TV version of The Shining, of course they’re right; overall it can’t compare to Kubrick’s film. But at the risk of causing general outrage, I’m going to suggest that maybe Steven Weber had one advantage (yes, just one) over Jack Nicolson as the recovering alcoholic: Weber is conventionally “normal” (like us, right?!!) in appearance, voice, behavior. Nicolson is, and always has been, one of those who walks alone–sardonic, with a maniacal gleam in the back (and sometimes the front) of his eye. He’s weird from the get-go. When Weber slowly goes mad, it’s especially shocking because he could be us. When Nicolson goes mad–oh wait, he already was. The shock is less.
Margaret, thanks for your comment. I am in complete agreement.
I’m not sure I could agree with this (at least not in large measure) but both Kaleem and Margaret hav eagain penned exceptional insights, that again raise the quality of discussion here. Bravo.
Well, to be fair, Jack had not yet become the leering shade-wearing Oscar standby that he would become in the 80s. Throughout the 70s, he worked with challenging directors like Antonioni and Polanski, and his characters were usually far more subtle, wounded, and low-key than they would become in later days (MacMurphy being an exception). So his presence did not have the same connotations in 1980 that it would have by 1989, with Batman, I think.
(Granted, he still does subtle turns every now and then – think About Schmidt, but they’ve very much become the exception to the rule.)
Kubrick is a hard director to assess in many ways. I see what people are getting at with his criticism, and I do think his work is not as flawless as many admirers – and he himself – seems to think. But I’m uneasy with the “cold” label. As a descriptor, and not necessarily a negative one, it’s great: his films do exhale an icy air, and his grandeur is cool and cerebral. But as a put-down, as something akin to calling the films without feeling or excitement, I simply can’t agree. Kubrick’s coldness is thrilling and if his cinema privileges technique over spontaneity it is because in his work technique is the carrier of art: the barren landscapes and epic vistas and coolly arranged yet mysterious interiors are pregnant with resonance…
And unfortunately I have to finish this comment at another time, as it’s no longer feasible for me to do so at the moment…
Brilliant stuff Joel! I am pretty much in agreement. You can be rest assured I’ll be looking for the continuation of this comment!
In lieu of finishing this thought, and since I’m linking up to old comments left and right today (if you want to get really meta about it, go here: https://wondersinthedark.wordpress.com/2009/09/23/fanny-and-alexander-tv-version-no-8/#comment-15799), here’s what I said about The Shining back in May, on these very boards (under the “Doctor Strangelove” banner):
“I was watching The Shining the other night and it struck me that the opening scenes are full of little missteps. The color scheme is all over the place, the line readings are sometimes tone-deaf, and it seems extremely odd that the hotel managers would admit someone killed himself doing EXACTLY THE SAME JOB that they’re hiring Jack to do (and because of that job, no less!) and Jack himself does not seem impressed by this fact. Later in the film, there is the horrible mismatch between the grandeur of the location footage and the very English feel of the Overlook exteriors – a dislocation that was to continue in Full Metal Jacket & Eyes Wide Shut in which Kubrick unconvincingly tries to recreate Vietnam and New York, respectively, in the tidy backyard of Elstree. (And no, I don’t buy the “going for fakery” argument, as the interiors of these films have a strong feel of authenticity).
But then there’s something about that music, that wide lens, that ineffable Kubrick tone which power over missteps here and there. I think his style and his public persona seemed to be at once so humorless and so arrogant that critics were itching to go for the jugular sometimes – to say that the pontificating, strutting emperor was wearing no clothes.
But I find Kubrick’s work so fascinating, that I’m willing to take the bad with the good – perhaps even as an integral part of it (would he have achieved those sublime, uncanny moments late in The Shining had he not pursued his method of repeating takes which seems to squash some of the energy and naturalism of early scenes too?)”
https://wondersinthedark.wordpress.com/2009/05/11/doctor-strangelove-no-17/#comment-7166
Dennis – Amen! I love and agree with your take on Jack the character and Jack the performer. Once again…the Kubrick/Nicholson interpretation of the Jack Torrance character is leagues apart and infinitely more compelling than King’s one-note “alcoholic father about to go nuts” set-up. You prove this point perfectly.
The child, becomes the biggest anchor of them all. Jack sees his son as the poison that keeps him from his dreams of success. Regardless to Jacks aspirations is the anchor of Jacks responsibilites. The child is the only lock that keeps Jack from escaping the hum-drum world of domesticity and Wendy. I always got the impression had Danny not been in the picture then Jack would have been frtee to walk out on Wendy and live the life of the hard drinking writer that comments on the unfairness of life. Basically, a man like Stephen King himself. Like a man being pulled out to see by the undertow regardlers to how hard he swims for land. The moment Wendy confronts Jack, baseball bat in tow, is the best illustratuion of Jacks pent up wariness from years of dreamt freedom. That she sides with the child, instead of helping Jack overcome his insecurities, is the slap that puts Jack over the edge and causes him to snap completely.
Nicholson brilliantly captures the ease of assimilation to the dark side. Whereas Wendy and Danny are finding bizarreness and exasperation in everything the hotel offers, its Jack that finds himself at ease with all of it. His casual walking through the corridors are in direct contrast to Danny’s nervous and guarded movement through the same territory. Notice the moment the camera pulls away from the typewriter to reveal Jack on the other side of the Colorado lounge playinhg handball against a Narive American fresco over the immense fireplace. This is a sign of familiarity and inner comfort. Jack is becoming one with his surroundings and everyday draws him closer to mastering them. This helps him ease into the decisions of murder and violence. Actually this is all really brilliant if you think about it.
Dennis — holy hell, man, what a tour de force of posts! You are so spot on in your character assessments….brilliant stuff. Maybe that’s why King really didn’t care for the film…it went even deeper into the psychology behind the Jack Torrance character and King didn’t like what he saw — himself! And that’s why in the TV miniseries King “redeemed” the Jack Torrance character (and himself) by making him more sympathetic and remorseful. But you are so right on…Torrance thought Wendy was a useless twit and the kid dead weight. And he had no remorse about his actions and murderous plans. He enjoyed it when he lost his mind and went on his rampage.
And I love how in the end, Torrance gets his due…and the kid outwits him in the maze (another reason I love this film so much — it shows a kid surviving the most horrible thing imaginable —-a parent trying to murder you — not through dumb luck or something supernatural or getting saved by an outside party but through his own keen wits and cleverness — two things his father never thought he possessed — shining had nothing to do with getting through that maze). Torrance underestimated his son and paid for it. Such a powerful father/son story arc there. Great stuff.
I’d agree that Kubrick brilliantly arouses and nurses the unease we feel toward Jack, to a high flame. For one thing, the distortions in Jack’s thinking make us wonder what he’ll be capable of next. His delusions about his writing skills–is there really any doubt that Jack stinks as a writer?–and the “free life” he COULD be living as an artist if it weren’t for his pedestrian, boring old wife and child, make us shiver with dread for them. Dennis, you’re right that the very stones of the lodge are drenched in sickness and murderous psychoses, and he’s at ease there.
By the way, I don’t agree that King objected to the movie because he saw himself in Jack Torrance. As a writer, King has his points.We may not like his over-the-top style, but he’s created some hellaciously fascinating narratives and characters…while Jack is a self-deluded hack.
By the way, because I had some time to kill this morning before work I did some quick research. For those who love random stats as much as me, here are some for your perusal:
This marks Kubrick’s 6th appearance on the countdown.
This puts him just behind Bergman and Hitchcock, with 7 each.
And he’s just ahead of Kurosawa, Tarkovsky, Bresson, Bunuel, Hawks with 5.
Behind them are Rivette, Peckinpah, Ozu, Lean, and Wilder with 4.
Then we have Scorsese, Coppola, Truffaut, Godard, Welles, (Satyajit) Ray, Resnais, Mizoguchi, Ford, (Max) Ophuls, Powell & Pressburger, and (Preson) Sturges, all with 3.
I guess Kubrick could join the top 2 if Allan has enough of an affinity for Eyes Wide Shut, but I doubt it will make the top 50 though I wouldn’t be surprised to see it in the nearlies. I don’t think Full Metal Jacket will make a surprise top 6 appearance here, so I guess Kubrick will not be surpassing the top dogs.
Of the rest, probably only Rivette and Scorsese are contenders for repeat appearances; well, actually, Bunuel might show up with Un Chien Andalou when we hit the silent era. Actually, given Allan’s penchant to include work meant for television, MAYBE Bergman could reappear but that’s a very big “maybe” and I’m not holding my breath…
MovieMan0283, “random” is the operative word here. These rankings have all the solidity of puffballs or milkweed silk–entirely personal, which means emotional. They were not carried down from the mountaintop by Moses, engraved on tablets of stone.
Kubrick ahead of Kurosawa and Bresson? Not on the best day he ever saw. Bergman and Hitchcock neck and neck? In Alfred’s dreams!
Well, that’s what I find interesting about them: how Allan’s directorial preferences pan out when you look at the countdown from a bird’s eye view.
“Bergman and Hitchcock neck and neck? In Alfred’s dreams!”
Of course, you’re no Moses either. And a LOT of very erudite, very intelligent critics would disagree with that previous statement; some would even rephrase it to read “In Ingmar’s dreams!” (see the Bordwell essay I linked up to on the Fanny & Alexander thread).
Also, quantity does not necessarily mean quality. I haven’t weighed Allan’s picks by ranking – a #50 and a #1 are given equal consideration. Furthermore, a #2 in the 60s is not the same as a #2 in the 80s, by Allan’s own admission. Another point to consider.
(And finally, a list of great films is not the same as a list of great directors, though oftentimes it’s close.)
In regard to Ingmar and Alfred, what falsifies any comparison of quality is the plain difference in scope and ambition of their films. I’d agree that Hitchcock directed some gems. I recently saw Foreign Correspondent again and was surprised at how thrilling it is. That scene with the windmill still works! Hitchcock has said that he knew every frame before he ever started filming, and it shows. His movies are diamond-cut by a master hand–but they’re still SMALL gems. It’s not possible to compare them to a staggering work of art like Cries and Whispers, or Persona. Bergman’s world is higher, broader, deeper, and sometimes intense almost past bearing. He’s a bigger artist.
“It’s not possible to compare them”
Again, your statement is too conclusive. Yours was the majority view 50 years ago, but in the 60s it was turned on its head by most of the critical community, led by the French (who liked Bergman AND Hitchcock, but talked a lot more about Hitch). As early as 1960-61 in America Andrew Sarris was shocking the highbrows by treating Psycho as a work of art and Hitchcock as a serious artist. What was a marginal position back then was the majority view within 10 years and has pretty much stayed that was since. In fact, I’d venture to say Hitchcock’s position is more secure in the cinephile community than Bergman’s.
Now, none of this is to dismiss your point of view or even say that you are wrong. Perhaps Bergman’s more ambitious themes and more obviously adventurous techniques do grant him a status above Hitchcock, and the auteurists are missing the point in elevating form so highly. Certainly, you would not be the first to say so. But by stating your point without even acknowledging the widespread disagreement with you, you are not at all giving the devil his due. (Indeed, when Jonathan Rosenbaum caused a stir with his criticism of Bergman shortly after the director’s death, David Bordwell said, “Jonathan’s case [is] an old story among his (my) generation.”)
Not sure if you’ve been following the Fanny & Alexander discussion, but pretty much the same topic has been broached over there. I tried to lay out the case against Bergman, playing devil’s advocate in a sense since I greatly admire the filmmaker myself, in this comment:
https://wondersinthedark.wordpress.com/2009/09/23/fanny-and-alexander-tv-version-no-8/#comment-15799
By the way, I highly recommend you follow the Bordwell link embedded in that, if you’ve not already read his piece, as it may be the best blog post I’ve ever read (even though, as Bordwell himself acknowledges, it only scratches the surface of the subject).
Oh, and I very much beg to differ that one cannot compare Vertigo to Cries and Whispers or Persona; it is certainly in the same class, though its approach is different.
I don’t think we can use “the majority view” on any particular film or director as a trump card to bolster up our own personal opinions. Because there are fashions in criticism, as in anything else, we should read critics for whatever interest or insight they can give, but not regard them as authorities. After all, Pauline Kael took a chunk out of Andrew Sarris (over his “Notes On The Auteur Theory”) when she was just a pup; Renata Adler took a chunk out of Kael somewhat further down the road; and so it goes. They can’t agree among themselves, and they often can’t even agree WITH themselves from one decade to the next. So we’re driven back, always, on our own thoughtful interpretations.
Thank you very much for the link, which I found particularly helpful. Your comments on Bergman are illuminating.
I appreciated the clarity of your explanation about those filmmakers who are admired for being “stubborn stylists”–because their admirers feel they’re incorruptibly true to their own vision, and that this remains unchanged inspite of the world shifting around them, or technological improvements. In the past, I thought (too simply) of them as filmmakers who refused to learn. But,yes, there are those like Bresson who were born with everything that they needed for their particular work. And there are those like Bergman who kept absorbing and developing every day of his life–and needed this process.
I’d agree that Vertigo is a flawlessly cut grey diamond of a film. And it’s a study of the ruthlessness of obsession (about which Hitchcock definitely knew a lot, both personally and artistically) which has rarely been equalled. I marvel at how far Hitchcock leads us, so quietly. James Stewart in his nice grey suit seems like such a nice, solid, normal guy–until we notice with a shock that, at approximately the same moment he’d finally managed to sculpt a living mannequin (Kovak) to a perfect likeness of his dead love, he’s also ground her down to nothing. I’d agree that Hitchcock can show us the sheer brutality of obsession, that searing focus, as powerfully as anybody. It brings out his best.
But Cries and Whispers is a life event.
Ah Margaret! Again we are on the same page and again you have brightened the threads here at WitD with your astute, scholarly comments. I know exactly what you are talking about with that ‘majority opinion’ disclaimer, as I myself have often been guilty of bringing it in to bolster my own arguments or opinion. But you are right of course. It all means close to nothing, if the ‘playing field’ is equal. (which as far as YOU are concerned it most certainly is.)
I have loved CRIES AND WHISPERS since its 1972 release. I saw it five times in the theatre that year, and it always disturbed and mesmerized me, while stretching the boundaries of the cinema. Nykvist’s color cinematography ranks among the greatest of all achievements and there is a quartet of electrifying performances on display. It is a life event for sure.
It’s not about using the majority view as a trump card, so much as acknowledging it and pondering why it may be so. Kael, who by the way I adore, was more than a bit hypocritical in her anti-auteurism because within 10 years she was a bigger auteurist than Sarris, at least when it came to (then-)contemporary cinema.
With this response, I feel a little more comfortable with your position – although I still disagree with it – since you’re engaging more with the tradition (btw, I have this same problem with Bob even though I agree with him much of the time – he does not see the need to at least humor “conventional wisdom” preferring to charge right ahead in full battle gear. Which makes for entertaining, if sometimes exasperating, threads.)
But I still can’t concur with the elevation of Cries & Whispers over Vertigo. Among other things, that particular film is not one of my favorite Bergmans. I admire it, but I have to admit it leaves me somewhat cold. I’m more moved by a messier work like Hour of the Wolf, more fascinated by a sketchier, yet impassioned, early work like Journey into Autumn. This is not at all to say that these films are better than Cries & Whispers, nor that it didn’t belong with the masterpieces – nonetheless, I’m on shaky ground comparing its greatness to other films.
But can Vertigo stand alongside the other great Bergmans which I am fully engaged with – The Virgin Spring, The Seventh Seal, Persona. I think it can. I don’t hold its genre trappings against it, nor its faintly absurd plot. In a way those are essential functions of its greatness because it provides a text for the subtext to pulsate underneath, creating a richer texture overall. And it feels just as powerful to me as a Bergman classic. I’m all about canons, but not really about ranking within them, and I believe both Bergman and Hitchcock belong firmly in the canon.
Out of curiosity, though, why do you feel Hitch is overrated, since you acknowledge that his following does exist, is strong, and may even be “the majority opinion.” What mistaken reasoning leads auteurists to place him in the same pantheon as Bergman? No hiding behind personal taste excuses! I’m genuinely curious as to what you feel has informed this phenomenon (Kael certainly had her views on the matter!).
And, I would add, that PSYCHO, is not just a mere thriller. The psychology on dsplay in the story as well as the psychology in the making of the film go far beyond just creating a roller-coaster. In fact, I always thought the “rug” pull of losing Marion in the shower to alter the attention from her to Norman is as psychological as us beginning to realize nothing iws as we expect or seems. This effect is relevant to the themes of dual personalities that will become the denoument of the film later on, almost as a predilection or psychic aside to the future. PSYCHO is a very deep film and goes beyond the conventions of Hitchcock’s comical admitions that it was just an exercise for him.
Of course, this is all part of the point with Kubrick and THE SHINING. A thrill ride can be more than just thrills, they can be at the core deep metaphorical treatises on important issues or social issues. Spielbergs WAR OF THE WORLDS (the social and moral ramifications brought on by terrorism) and MINORITY REPORT (the death of privacy through government wire-tapping) are just a few examples of recent films that thrill but give you more than meets the eye.
MovieMan0283, I don’t believe that “the majority opinion” would place Hitchcock at the same level as Bergman. I don’t see evidence for that statement. But certainly there are some who do, and it seems to me that the impetus was Truffaut’s long 1967 published interview, Hitchcock/Truffaut. You know all of this, but I’ll state it to clarify my own thinking. At that time Truffaut was a figure of great glamour and influence, with his followers claiming he’d invented not only the auteur theory BUT, arguably, the New Wave itself. They hung on his words with a concentrated attention that would be almost impossible today, because there are so many more influences. Truffaut said that Hitchcock was worthy of not only close, but even worshipful attention, and his followers listened. It was Truffaut who had the chutzpah to put Psycho on the same level as The Virgin Spring, saying that essentially they shared the same story–that of Little Red Ridinghood (!). Truffaut was an extremely plausible speaker and writer; I’ve read many of his interviews, and the pressure of his personality (at the time) almost makes one suspend judgment. It takes awhile to recover from his powerful charm, think it over and decide that, No, Psycho is NOT like The Virgin Spring, and neither of them is particularly like Little Red Ridinghood. Decades later, some film buffs have still not managed a calm evaluation. In short,I think that Truffaut was the source of the notion that Hitchcock was a first-rate auteur, that Truffaut’s status made this the radically chic thing to believe, and that decades later this influence still holds. Film freaks (and I’m one) “hate to be late”–I can remember a vague general feeling, in the air, that it was somehow retrograde to continue to worship the old kings, Bergman and Kurosawa. But I have, and I do.
When Truffaut was a young buck, before his great personal success, he wrote film reviews that were known for their severe brutality. His written judgments battered even (or especially) revered directors. I don’t think it’s farfetched to suggest that he had a streak of envy in his makeup. I see his iconoclastic theories as proceeding, often, from that young man burning with talent and envy.
Though I agree that Truffaut was a far better filmmaker than a critic, an accusation I could throw at most of the nouvelle vague directors, I couldn’t put Hitch ahead of Bergman or certainly couldn’t place Bergman ahead of Hitch. If I made a list of all masterworks or near masterworks of cinema – ie. those I have done essays for – those two come out top with 13 entries each. Does this mean they are the best two directors? No, it doesn’t, only that they should be on any list of nominees. Once you get to the absolute crème de la crème, you’re looking at essentially favouritism, not a difference in excellence. Can you say they are better than a host of others?
It’s all a matter of taste when it comes to the real masters. If I had to pick six favourites, I’m not sure if either Bergman or Hitch would be amongst them. I personally heavily favour silent cinema as the most aesthetic cinema of all, and think that the real masters of the silent era – Murnau and Von Stroheim especially, but also Eisenstein, Gance, Sjöstrom, Lang, Dreyer, Pabst, l’Herbier, Von Sternberg (whose talkies are shot much like silents), Griffith, Vidor, even a couple of Hitchs…are the ones we owe most to. Visually, they haven’t been surpassed. There have been the aesthetics (Ophuls, Kubrick, Ford, Renoir, Mizoguchi, Visconti), the humanists or cine-prophets (Dovzhenko, Tarkovsky, Ozu, Kieslowski, Antonioni, S Ray, de Sica, Rossellini, Bresson, Powell, Naruse, Davies, later Dreyer and, yes, Bergman), the comic masters (Chaplin, Keaton, Sturges, Lubitsch, Tati, Clair, Capra), the old-school master craftsmen (Hawks, Cukor, Curtiz, Walsh, Wilder, Kurosawa, Wellman, Wyler, Huston, Dieterle, Melville, Carné, Duvivier), the Cine-Blood film men (Truffaut, Scorsese, Demy, Lean, Spielberg), or by the iconoclast revolutionaries, rule-breakers or surrealists who took film in new directions (Welles, Vigo, Fassbinder, Fellini, Buñuel, Rivette, Cocteau, Godard, Syberberg, Resnais, Altman, Malick, Jancsó, Lynch, Von Trier). Many of these have equalled the silent masters but not surpassed them. Nor will they ever.
I understand why you heavily favor the silents for their aesthetics, although an argument might be made that a film like Kinugasa’s Gate of Hell (1953) has that and more. It’s a film of staggering aesthetic beauty and set pieces in the silent tradition–AND it also has sound, which is very sensitively used here and not intrusive. At first I couldn’t figure out how the director knew to do this! Then I realized Kinugasa directed the great silents A Page of Madness and Crossways. What he was doing in all those years in between, I don’t know.
Whether one can agree with this completely or not is another matter but this is an absolutely outstanding set of thoughts. Wonderful stuff!
and I do have great sympathy for the idea that cinema lost its truest potential as an art form once it moved out of the silent age.
God, I posted a long response and it got chewed up. How frustrating. Well, perhaps this is an opportunity to be more concise.
1. I see why you would consider silent cinema a purer “aesthetic” experience than sound, but I think that’s more due to dialogue than sound per se (though dialogue can be quite “cinematic” too – think Harry Lime on the ferris wheel, words which feel just as integral as the mise-en-scene or montage). True, the effects of sound design can be reproduced in other fields, whereas moving imagery seems the essence of the cinema. But the juxtaposition of sound and image has its own effect, which is not duplicated elsewhere.
2. I find, for the experience you celebrate to be truly appreciated, one should watch silent films without musical accompaniment. I discovered this by accident a few years ago with a double feature of Faust & The Last Laugh. I almost left the theater when I realized there would be no music, but I decided to stay and found myself far more captivated and immersed than I had ever been by silent films. Since then, true silence has been my preferred method of appreciation. Yes, many were intended to be played with music (though oftentimes not the music we’re hearing), but guess what? They almost always work better without the distraction.
Margaret, Kinugasa is a perfect example of a director ripe for rediscovery, largely because his three major works, those three you mentioned, are all available only in such mediocre prints. If someone got off their proverbial derrière and remastered these, I think he’d be fêted with the upper echelon masters of Nipponese cinema. Gate of Hell perhaps least if only because, though lovely to look at (and would be even lovelier were it not only seen in that horrible orangy hue that old NTSC tapes used to give the human face) it’s still rather theatrical in narrative terms.
MovieMan, you may well be right re silents without music – take the likes of Passion of Joan of Arc, for example, which was never intended to have a score. However, there are silents, especially those with the Carl Davis touch (Napoleon, The Wedding March, The Thief of Bagdad in particular), that benefit immensely from musaical accompaniment. Generally the musical accompaniment of the period is less than the modern scores applied to it because the scores had to be simple enough to be played by often amateur pianists in moviehouses of the 1910s and 20s. With very few exceptions (Shostakovich’s work for Kozintsev, Henri Rabaud’s glorious score for The Chess Player, Honegger’s for La Roue), the new orchestrations are better.
Kaleem, I’m just glad I wasn’t taken to task for calling Kurosawa a mere master craftsman, but that’s really what he was, a storyteller first and foremost. Nothing wrong with that of course.
Margaret, another great response. I’m especially pleased that you elaborated on what you feel the roots of Hitchcock’s over-praise are; you didn’t dodge the question at all but faced it head-on. And I feel you’re right in much of your assessment, though I also think Truffaut’s celebration – while misplaced in some respects perhaps – was not misguided overall.
I’ll respond to a greater extent elsewhere, but let me say I appreciate your interpretation of Truffaut’s motives – and sympathize with him to a certain extent, as I think any aspiring filmmakers feeling frozen out of an ossified system can. Today the American cinema is rampant with “certain tendancies” though, sadly, a “tradition of quality” is the least of our worries…
And I do still disagree that a placement of Hitchock in the canon of the greats, alongside Bergman among others, isn’t by far the majority view in the critical community. Not to say it’s right, of course (though I think it is). Nonetheless, respect for classical Hollywood filmmakers and an auteurist reading of cinema history have become vital components of the dominant ideology, informing I think it’s safe to say the vas majority of critical pieces, from daily reviews to scholarly dissertations.
Allan: There have been the true ‘aestheticians’ also — Eisenstein, Rivette, Godard among them. Directors who had a serious theory of cinema and then proceeded to apply these to their films.
Yes and no, though I see Rivette and Godard as revolutionaries primarily against traditional film form, like Syberberg and Resnais. Eisenstein may have given us montage, but really that was an aesthetic he developed upon the back of Gance and Vertov. When using the term aesthetic I’m thinking of a less iconoclastic aesthetic, one rather that rather used visuals to illustrate the story and were influenced by earlier movements in other art-forms.
I’d disagree there. Eisenstein has a very advanced theory of cinema which cannot be summarized by just the reference to montage and in any case his idea of montage is also very specific in that it has a strong ideological component.
Getting back to your earlier comment though I think many of your notions are deeply abstract. How could anyone believe that Kurosawa did not have the greatest visual artistry in use when he framed what have been considered even by his detractors to be the among the most striking images ever put on film? Not just this, entire techniques of shooting action and so forth owe a great deal to him. Bergman fashioned an entire film under the influence of Rashomon and them rejected it because he felt it was too indebted to Kurosawa. Desser considers there to be more artistry in any 4 min segment of Seven Samurai than any other film he’s aware of. Is this all just the work of a master craftsman?!
Is Ozu just a prophet? Isn’t his visual aesthetic as developed and as precise as anyone else’s? Did he not develop an entire cinematic language (again recognized as such by everyone) to suit his world view? Aren’t his visual cues among the most sophisticated anywhere in cinema?!
You put Mizoguchi and Ford on the side of ‘aesthetics’ but not Ozu and Kurosawa! I just don’t understand what notion of aesthetics you’re really referring to! Your labels are interesting in a thematic sense but utterly strange, even bizarre, for any formalist understanding of cinema. Is Kieslowski just a humanist (this too is very questionable I would say but that’s a different matter)? What about his extraordinary visual grammar?
Believe it or not I could go through every one of your examples in every one of your groups! again I liked the original comment very much. It was suggestive but I just don’t understand why any one category precludes the others which is what such labels suggest. But leaving this aside aren’t all important directors indulging in some form or fashion of aesthetics?
To say that one primarily tells a story or another is primarily a prophet or what have you is like suggesting Shakespeare primarily writes very interesting plays and it is Racine who has the real aesthetics! It’s not iconoclasm at all. You list some revolutionary makers. Is Fellini more revolutionary than Bresson or Rosselini? Again I could keep running down the list.
“An epic horror movie in every way, it’s a film to make M.Night Shyamalan cover his hands in shame.”
[as someone who’s long championed this film and considered it arguably the best among the director’s works possibly with Unbreakable I am glad to find some company here! Some spoilers here for anyone who still hasn’t seen the film]
THE VILLAGE
Slavoj Zizek
Those who all too easily dismiss Night M. Shyamalan’s films as the lowest of the New Age kitsch are in for some surprises. The Village takes place in a Pennsylvania village cut off from the rest of the world and surrounded by woods full of dangerous monsters known to the villagers as ‘Those We Don’t Speak Of.’ Most villagers are content to live with a bargain they made with the creatures: they don’t enter the forest, the creatures don’t enter the town. Conflict arises when the young Lucius Hunt wishes to leave the village in search of new medicines, and the pact is broken. Lucius and Ivy Walker, the village leader’s blind daughter, decide to get married, which makes the village idiot really jealous; he stabs Lucius and nearly kills him, leaving him at the mercy of an infection that requires medicines from the outside world. Ivy’s father then tells her about the town’s secret: there are no monsters, and the year isn’t really 1897. The town elders were part of a 20th-century crime victims’ support group which decided to withdraw from it completely; Walker’s father had been a millionaire businessman, so they bought a bunch of land, called it a ‘wildlife preserve,’ surrounded it with a big fence and lots of guards, bribed government officials to reroute airplanes away from the community, and moved inside, concocting the story about ‘those we do not speak of’ to keep anyone from leaving. With her father’s blessing, Ivy slips outside, meets a friendly security guard who gives her some medicine, and returns to save her betrothed’s life. So, at the film’s end, the village elders decide to go on with their secluded lives: the village idiot’s death can be presented to the non-initiated as a proof that the creatures exist, confirming the founding myth of the community.
Sacrificial logic is thus reasserted as the condition of a community, as its secret bond – no wonder that most of the critics dismissed the film as the worst case of ideological cocooning: “It’s easy to understand why he’s attracted to setting a movie in a period where people proclaimed their emotions in full and heartfelt sentences, or why he enjoys building a village that’s impenetrable to the outside world. He’s not making movies. He’s making cocoons.” 1 The desire underlying the film is thus the desire to recreate a closed universe of authenticity in which innocence is protected from the corrosive force of modernity: “It’s all about how to protect your innocence from getting hurt by the ‘creatures’ in your life; the desire to protect your children from going into the unknown. If these ‘creatures’ have hurt you, you don’t want them to hurt your children and the younger generation may be willing to risk that.” 2
Upon a closer look, however, the film reveals itself to be much more ambiguous. When reviewers noticed that “the movie is in H.P. Lovecraft territory: severe, wintry New England palette; a suggestion of inbreeding; hushed mentions of ‘The Old Ones,’ ‘Those We Don’t Speak Of’,” 3 they as a rule forgot to mention the political context: let us not forget that the 19th century self-subsistent community also refers to the many utopian-socialist communities that thrived in the late 19th century US. This does not mean that the Lovecraft reference to supernatural horror is just a mask, a false lure. We have two universes: the modern open “risk society” versus the safety of the old secluded universe of Meaning – but the price of Meaning is a finite closed space guarded by unnamable Monsters. Evil is not simply excluded in this closed utopian space – it is transformed into a mythic threat with which the community establishes a temporary truce and against which it has to maintain a permanent state of emergency.
The “Deleted Scenes” special feature on the DVD release all too often makes the viewer only realize that the director was right to delete these scenes – however, in the DVD edition of Village, there is an exception to this rule. One of the deleted scenes is that of a “Drill”: Walker rings the bell, giving to the community the signal to practice the fast retreat into underground shelters in the case of the creatures’ attack – as if authentic community is only possible in the conditions of a permanent threat, in a continuous state of emergency. 4
This threat is, as we learn, in the best “totalitarian” manner staged by the inner circle (“elders”) of the community itself, in order to prevent the non-initiated youngsters to leave the village and risk the passage through the forest to the decadent “towns.” The “evil” itself has to be redoubled: the “real” evil of late-capitalist social disintegration has to be transposed into the archaic magic-mythic evil of “creatures.” The “Evil” IS a part of the “inner circle” itself, IMAGINED by its members. Are we here not back at Chesterton’s Thursday, in which the highest police authority IS the same person as the super-criminal, staging a battle with himself? In a proto-Hegelian way, the external threat the community is fighting is its own inherent essence… 5
And what if this is true in a much more radical way than it may appear? What if the true Evil of our societies is not the capitalist dynamics as such, but the attempts to extricate ourselves from it (while profiting from it), to carve out self-enclosed communal spaces, from “gated communities” to exclusive racial or religious groups? That is to say, is the point of The Village not precisely to demonstrate that, today, a return to an authentic community in which speech still directly expresses true emotions, etc. – the village of the socialist utopia – is a fake which can only be staged as a spectacle for the very rich? The exemplary figure of Evil are today not ordinary consumers who pollute environment and live in a violent world of disintegrating social links, but those (top managers, etc.) who, while fully engaged in creating conditions for such universal devastation and pollution, exempt themselves from the results of their own activity, living in gated communities, eating organic food, taking holidays in wild preserves, etc.
1. “Idiot. The case against M. Night Shyamalan,” by Michael Agger, http://slate.msn.com/id/2104567
2. Quoted from http://www.glidemagazine.com/articles120.html
3. David Edelstein, on http://slate.msn.com/id/2104512
4. One of the more stupid reproaches to the film (not unlike the same reproach to Hitchcock’s Vertigo) is that it spoils the suspense by disclosing the secret already two thirds into the film – this very knowledge makes the last third all the more interesting. That is to say, the film’s last third – more precisely, Ivy’s painfully slow progress through the forest – confronts us with a clear enigma (or, as some would have put it, narrative inconsistency): why is Ivy afraid of the Creatures, why are the Creatures still presented as a mythic threat, although she already knows that Creatures don’t exist, that they are a staged fake? In another deleted scene, Ivy, after hearing the ominous (and, as we know, artificially generated) sounds that announce the proximity of the Creatures, cries with desperate intensity: “It is for love that I am here. So I beg you to let me cross!” – why does she do it if she knows there are no Creatures? She knows very well, but… there is more reality in the haunting irreal specters than in direct reality itself.
5. Here, Nicholas Meyer is also right in his Sherlock Holmes pastiche The Seven-Per-Cent Solution: within the diegetic space of the Sherlock Holmes stories, Moriarty, the arch-criminal – “Napoleon of crime” – and Holmes’ ultimate opponent, is clearly a fantasy of Holmes himself, his double, his Dark Half: in the opening pages of Meyer’s novel, Watson is visited by Moriarty, a humble mathematics professor, who complains to Watson that Holmes is obsessed with the idée fixe that he is the master criminal; to cure Holmes, Watson lures him to Vienna, to Freud’s house.
Thanks for this terrific post here Kaleem. As you know I am a big fan of THE VILLAGE and I also feel that Shyamalen (while no Orson Welles) is not the talentless hack that many seem to believe he is.
agreed.. the Village is his best film to my mind with the possible exception of Unbreakable..
the films of his that least interest me are the more successful ones. Sixth Sense was well directed and had a good twist for its time (if one forgets this ‘priority’ the film has I vastly prefer Amenabar’s the Others), Signs was passable too but Unbreakable (though uneven) and even moreso the Village seem to me his best films. The last third of Lady in the Water was very good though he took too long to get to the point with arguably not enough of a tradeoff. But he did provoke violent reactions with the Village. People absolutely abhorred him for it and he became a ‘ridiculous’ figure in the media after this. lady in the water added to the problem. When this sort of thing happens I usually have the sense that the director has done something right! Audiences dislike many films but they truly hate (in that visceral sense) very few films and when the latter happens we should be alert.