what was the last movie you watched?
- Thread starter Folsom Al
- Start date
Aliens late last night (Special Edition). I hadn't watched it in forever and thought it would be good to revisit. It still holds up pretty well overall. Some of the special effects were a bit dated, especially the scenes flying the dropship and some of the explosions throughout. Some of the acting was just a *tad* bit over the top (looking at you in particular, Hudson) but given when the movie was made (mid 1980's) it isn't egregious. Still a great flick with some fantastic actors.
Löwenherz
Starter
Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair (20XX) - Theaters
No idea what release year to put, so let’s just give it two rad Xs.
After more than 5 hours in the theater I can say with confidence the worst part of this was the 15 minute intermission … and whatever the hell that post-credit Fortnight tie-in animated scene was supposed to be.
Otherwise, if you have the bladder for it, this is the definitive Kill Bill.
No idea what release year to put, so let’s just give it two rad Xs.
After more than 5 hours in the theater I can say with confidence the worst part of this was the 15 minute intermission … and whatever the hell that post-credit Fortnight tie-in animated scene was supposed to be.
Otherwise, if you have the bladder for it, this is the definitive Kill Bill.
What few changes I noticed all happen in
Vol 1:
-O-Ren’s origin story animation is expanded to include her killing the specific henchman who murdered her father, and not just the mob boss.
-The Battle in the House of Blue Leaves is entirely in color.
-The scene in which The Bride tortures Sofie for information, and what Bill tells Sofie afterward in the hospital is changed. (and the “clip show” teasing Vol. 2 is absent)
So not really significant changes, and for the most part, The Whole Bloody Affair is merely watching both volumes back-to-back without needing to swap out the DVDs. But it’s that last change that makes all the difference: Bill doesn’t ask Sofie if Beatrix knows B.B. is still alive. Meaning, if this is your first time through, the audience doesn’t know B.B. is still alive either.
That reveal was put in place to set up Vol. 2, but is much more appropriate for the audience to learn at the same time Beatrix does when she finally confronts Bill directly. It’s a rug-pull moment allowing a reflection in real time on the blood-soaked path she took, complicating her revenge story against the father of her child, and its fantastic.
When I first saw them decades ago, I thought Vol 1. was exhilarating and fun, but annoyingly incomplete, while Vol. 2 was more subdued and much less exciting, but had a great climax and payoff.
But with both halves combined, the second half’s more deliberate approach feels completely appropriate immediately following the bonkers chaos of the House of Blue Leaves scene. Together, each individual element more readily synergizes with the others.
It’s a glorious mash-up of genres: kung fu classic, blaxploitation, neo westerns, samurai movies and probably a half dozen more I couldn’t spot all in support of an over-the-top and supremely sleek and cool revenge epic in the vein of Lady Snowblood.
-I also much more appreciate the appearances of Hattori Hanzo and Pai Mei than I did 20 years ago.
-And that GoGo Yukari is played by Chiaki Kuriyama from Battle Royale
-And that the Two Pines church is on Agua Caliente street, which in addition to simply meaning “hot water” is also the town at the end of For a Few Dollars More.
-And that The Bride’s yellow jumpsuit is a nod to Bruce Lee in Game of Death
-And that Elle’s thrashing is reminiscent of Pris’ death in Blade Runner.
You guys, I hadn’t even seen Blade Runner when I first caught Vol 1. on opening night in 2003.
I didn’t even like Pulp Fiction yet.
My how I’ve grown.
Vol 1:
-O-Ren’s origin story animation is expanded to include her killing the specific henchman who murdered her father, and not just the mob boss.
-The Battle in the House of Blue Leaves is entirely in color.
-The scene in which The Bride tortures Sofie for information, and what Bill tells Sofie afterward in the hospital is changed. (and the “clip show” teasing Vol. 2 is absent)
So not really significant changes, and for the most part, The Whole Bloody Affair is merely watching both volumes back-to-back without needing to swap out the DVDs. But it’s that last change that makes all the difference: Bill doesn’t ask Sofie if Beatrix knows B.B. is still alive. Meaning, if this is your first time through, the audience doesn’t know B.B. is still alive either.
That reveal was put in place to set up Vol. 2, but is much more appropriate for the audience to learn at the same time Beatrix does when she finally confronts Bill directly. It’s a rug-pull moment allowing a reflection in real time on the blood-soaked path she took, complicating her revenge story against the father of her child, and its fantastic.
When I first saw them decades ago, I thought Vol 1. was exhilarating and fun, but annoyingly incomplete, while Vol. 2 was more subdued and much less exciting, but had a great climax and payoff.
But with both halves combined, the second half’s more deliberate approach feels completely appropriate immediately following the bonkers chaos of the House of Blue Leaves scene. Together, each individual element more readily synergizes with the others.
It’s a glorious mash-up of genres: kung fu classic, blaxploitation, neo westerns, samurai movies and probably a half dozen more I couldn’t spot all in support of an over-the-top and supremely sleek and cool revenge epic in the vein of Lady Snowblood.
-I also much more appreciate the appearances of Hattori Hanzo and Pai Mei than I did 20 years ago.
-And that GoGo Yukari is played by Chiaki Kuriyama from Battle Royale
-And that the Two Pines church is on Agua Caliente street, which in addition to simply meaning “hot water” is also the town at the end of For a Few Dollars More.
-And that The Bride’s yellow jumpsuit is a nod to Bruce Lee in Game of Death
-And that Elle’s thrashing is reminiscent of Pris’ death in Blade Runner.
You guys, I hadn’t even seen Blade Runner when I first caught Vol 1. on opening night in 2003.
I didn’t even like Pulp Fiction yet.
My how I’ve grown.
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I have never owned Kill Bill on any home media because I was always waiting on this. I haven't bought much physical media since 2020 when before that I used to go to Best Buy or wherever and scoop up every Blu-Ray under $10 but I am day one 4k on this one. I think I can still get tickets to see a 70mm print but honestly I don't go to theaters much when I have a solid projector based and 7.1 setup in my basement. But it's tempting since I can't think of the last time I saw a screening on real film let alone 70mm.
I had been trying to get my son to watch Spinal Tap all weekend so we could watch the sequel together and failed but after yesterday's shocking news I decided I'd just watch it.
I was expecting the absolute worst based on reviews which kept me away from theaters but I thought it was rather charming. No it does not hold a candle to the original. Nor is it as good as Guest's best (Waiting For Guffman and Best In Show), it's just a bunch of fan service with some big cameos and cheerful high spots. Standout newcomers are Chris Addison as the truly awful concert promoter and Valerie Franco as the band's new drummer, who comes to the band after one of the funnier sequences where high profile drummers all politely declining the gig.
Sadly there are no "these go to eleven" or "what's wrong with being sexy?" type of lines that came at you almost non stop in the original. It's much more deliberate in setting up the big cameos and featured collaborations on the classic Tap material, ultimately arriving at the reunion concert, which was done well. It's not going to stand the test of time as an infinitely quotable series of vignettes playfully poking fun at the excesses of rock stars, instead it feels like a companion piece celebrating the 40(+1) years of Spinal Tap's influence on the culture it spoofed, and that's alright.
I was expecting the absolute worst based on reviews which kept me away from theaters but I thought it was rather charming. No it does not hold a candle to the original. Nor is it as good as Guest's best (Waiting For Guffman and Best In Show), it's just a bunch of fan service with some big cameos and cheerful high spots. Standout newcomers are Chris Addison as the truly awful concert promoter and Valerie Franco as the band's new drummer, who comes to the band after one of the funnier sequences where high profile drummers all politely declining the gig.
Sadly there are no "these go to eleven" or "what's wrong with being sexy?" type of lines that came at you almost non stop in the original. It's much more deliberate in setting up the big cameos and featured collaborations on the classic Tap material, ultimately arriving at the reunion concert, which was done well. It's not going to stand the test of time as an infinitely quotable series of vignettes playfully poking fun at the excesses of rock stars, instead it feels like a companion piece celebrating the 40(+1) years of Spinal Tap's influence on the culture it spoofed, and that's alright.
I turned off the Kings game at halftime and watched The Ref (with Denis Leary, Kevin Spacey, and Judy Davis) last night. Not a "great" movie by any means, but one of the Christmas comedies I watch every couple of years. It never takes itself too seriously, but those three do a pretty good job.
I think this movie and Demolition Man are the only two movies I've ever seen with Denis in them (other than perhaps some voice acting stuff). This role fits him.
I think this movie and Demolition Man are the only two movies I've ever seen with Denis in them (other than perhaps some voice acting stuff). This role fits him.
Watched "Relay" , https://www.imdb.com/title/tt11539996/
I watched it tonight and agree with this.
Got the kiddo to watch the original Spinal Tap on Saturday when we got home from our visit with family over the last week in hopes of getting him to come to an all ages Spinal Tap tribute show with me in two weeks. We'll see but he did wind up falling asleep midway through and not sure all the jokes hit with him.
Watched Wake Up Dead Man tonight. Really loved it. I think it maybe being a bit less over the top with some of the characters made me enjoy it a little more than Glass Onion but may not have the rewatchability. The church elements were fun for me though as someone with a complicated relationship with the church. The entire cast was brilliant.
Watched Wake Up Dead Man tonight. Really loved it. I think it maybe being a bit less over the top with some of the characters made me enjoy it a little more than Glass Onion but may not have the rewatchability. The church elements were fun for me though as someone with a complicated relationship with the church. The entire cast was brilliant.
This was actually a pretty good flick. I’ve always liked Sam Worthington. Everyone was pretty good in this. Thanks for mentioning it here.
28 Years Later The Bone Temple. Alex Garland is doing a fantastic job of pushing the story forward. Would have been easy to just put out the same story with new characters but it’s a good movie and Fiennes is great. If you love this franchise, you get a great treat in the last scene that sets up the next movie.
The Rip on Netflix. Damon and Affleck and Yeun. Star power makes this work. A good Netflix movie to watch
The Rip on Netflix. Damon and Affleck and Yeun. Star power makes this work. A good Netflix movie to watch
It's been a couple of weeks now since I saw it, but I want to throw in a quick pitch for an up and coming director that I've been impressed by. Bi Gan from Kaili City in mainland China has a new movie (his third) that you might still be able to catch in your local art house theater called Resurrection. It's already been announced as a future Criterion release -- I don't know what that means for streaming only movie fans but I'm sure it will be picked up somewhere soon. His previous movie Long Day's Journey Into Night (no relation to the play) is streaming on Kanopy now. In style he reminds me a little of David Lynch (dream inspired imagery) with some Andrei Tarkovsky and Terrence Malick mixed in as well. Certainly not everyone's idea of a good time but if your interest is peaked by that description, check his movies out. All three of his movies (the first one is called Kaili Blues) have very elaborate single take shots that make up a significant chunk of their runtime so they're also worth watching just to indulge in some technical artistry. The single take shot in Long Day's Journey Into Night is over an hour long!
But back to Resurrection -- this movie starts out in what appears to be an early 20th century opium den with opening titles informing us that the people in this fictional world have discovered that they can live forever but only if they don't dream. After a short intro in the style of a silent movie, the rest of Resurrection takes place inside the head of a renegade 'deleriant' -- the name given to dreamers in this world -- who we're told will slowly die over the course of the next 100 years. This elaborate framing device is an excuse for Bi Gan to tell 5 different short stories, each one relating to one of the five senses and in the style of a different film genre or time period. There's a German expressionist style gothic horror piece, a noir mystery, a scenario with a former monk at a ruined temple set during the cultural revolution, a crime story about a con man who enlists a young girl to help him with a card trick, and a modern-ish vampire love story filmed all as a single long take during the last hours before sunrise. The soundtrack to the movie was written and performed by the French electro-rock band M83. It's a good movie theater experience for those who like to dream in public places.
But back to Resurrection -- this movie starts out in what appears to be an early 20th century opium den with opening titles informing us that the people in this fictional world have discovered that they can live forever but only if they don't dream. After a short intro in the style of a silent movie, the rest of Resurrection takes place inside the head of a renegade 'deleriant' -- the name given to dreamers in this world -- who we're told will slowly die over the course of the next 100 years. This elaborate framing device is an excuse for Bi Gan to tell 5 different short stories, each one relating to one of the five senses and in the style of a different film genre or time period. There's a German expressionist style gothic horror piece, a noir mystery, a scenario with a former monk at a ruined temple set during the cultural revolution, a crime story about a con man who enlists a young girl to help him with a card trick, and a modern-ish vampire love story filmed all as a single long take during the last hours before sunrise. The soundtrack to the movie was written and performed by the French electro-rock band M83. It's a good movie theater experience for those who like to dream in public places.
Löwenherz
Starter
The state of affairs in the world has me in a mood I guess.
Let’s dive into some escapism and talk movies for a bit.
Spoilers for length … and outright spoilers.
-Part 1 of 3
Come and See (1985) - YouTube
Phoenix (2014) - Kanopy
Grave of the Fireflies (1988) - Netflix
The Killing Fields (1984) - Tubi
Let’s dive into some escapism and talk movies for a bit.
Spoilers for length … and outright spoilers.
-Part 1 of 3
Come and See (1985) - YouTube
Damn, those Soviets sure knew how to make films that claw into your skull and haunt you like a whisper from a dark hallway.
I mean, I still randomly think of Stalker from time to time and the consummate creeping dread of an unseen metaphysical monster lurking off screen but never materializing.
Here, the lurking monsters are the Nazis, and while it takes some time as Klimov expertly holds off “showing the shark,” they do eventually appear in full goose-stepping regalia, bringing murder and nightmares in their wake.
To be clear, this is a straight up horror film disguised as a war drama. In addition to the visual and narrative terrors you might expect, there’s an unsettling distortion of voices that sneaks in throughout, most apparent with the little boy at the beginning inexplicably talking like Ghostface from Scream after a lifetime of chain-smoking. Honestly not entirely sure if this was intended or not, but regardless, infuses scenes with an almost subliminal eeriness.
That’s really the closest the film gets to subtlety though. Otherwise the message is stark and explicit: The Nazis were death, and hell followed with them. And it is absolutely relentless in hammering that message for nearly two and a half hours straight.
Still, that’s not to say this is merely an onslaught of disturbing imagery. There are quiet scenes, tranquil scenes, even joyful scenes with the tension and torment naturally rising and waning through the narrative into the final hour.
Then it becomes an onslaught of disturbing imagery.
Flyora actor Aleksei Kravchenko, only 15 at the time of filming, carry’s the weight of the entire epic’s emotional center with an impeccable realism that grounds the horrors, and Flyora’s trauma, into a chilling hyper-truth.
Olga Mironova as Glasha was compellingly magnetic in her lone film role ever. Slightly disappointed she abruptly disappears halfway through, even though I understand functionally, narratively, and metaphorically why it needed to happen. And whether or not she reappears later has become a fascinating “white dress / blue dress” debate among viewers.
I’ve seen my share of war dramas and action thrillers saturated with firefights and weapons barrages that have generally numbed me to the pseudo-reality of gun violence on film. But at the sight of angry red streaks from an unseen Nazi machine gun zipping through the twilight air of a frostbitten field - I ducked despite myself from the comfort of my couch and bristled at the unyielding truth that each one represented the calculated, dispassionate, anonymous, instant, and total erasure of a human life … all while Flyora hid behind a cow whose milk he’d just drank from his bare hands cupped into a bowl.
I mean, I still randomly think of Stalker from time to time and the consummate creeping dread of an unseen metaphysical monster lurking off screen but never materializing.
Here, the lurking monsters are the Nazis, and while it takes some time as Klimov expertly holds off “showing the shark,” they do eventually appear in full goose-stepping regalia, bringing murder and nightmares in their wake.
To be clear, this is a straight up horror film disguised as a war drama. In addition to the visual and narrative terrors you might expect, there’s an unsettling distortion of voices that sneaks in throughout, most apparent with the little boy at the beginning inexplicably talking like Ghostface from Scream after a lifetime of chain-smoking. Honestly not entirely sure if this was intended or not, but regardless, infuses scenes with an almost subliminal eeriness.
That’s really the closest the film gets to subtlety though. Otherwise the message is stark and explicit: The Nazis were death, and hell followed with them. And it is absolutely relentless in hammering that message for nearly two and a half hours straight.
Still, that’s not to say this is merely an onslaught of disturbing imagery. There are quiet scenes, tranquil scenes, even joyful scenes with the tension and torment naturally rising and waning through the narrative into the final hour.
Then it becomes an onslaught of disturbing imagery.
Flyora actor Aleksei Kravchenko, only 15 at the time of filming, carry’s the weight of the entire epic’s emotional center with an impeccable realism that grounds the horrors, and Flyora’s trauma, into a chilling hyper-truth.
Olga Mironova as Glasha was compellingly magnetic in her lone film role ever. Slightly disappointed she abruptly disappears halfway through, even though I understand functionally, narratively, and metaphorically why it needed to happen. And whether or not she reappears later has become a fascinating “white dress / blue dress” debate among viewers.
I’ve seen my share of war dramas and action thrillers saturated with firefights and weapons barrages that have generally numbed me to the pseudo-reality of gun violence on film. But at the sight of angry red streaks from an unseen Nazi machine gun zipping through the twilight air of a frostbitten field - I ducked despite myself from the comfort of my couch and bristled at the unyielding truth that each one represented the calculated, dispassionate, anonymous, instant, and total erasure of a human life … all while Flyora hid behind a cow whose milk he’d just drank from his bare hands cupped into a bowl.
Phoenix (2014) - Kanopy
Super compelling open with a mysterious heroic woman smuggling through troop-patrolled Germany a holocaust survivor whose face is completely obscured by heavy bandages.
Intrigue becomes a little blunted as we learn this is post-war Germany so the patrolling American GIs aren’t there to be threats, our pair find the greatest plastic surgeon in all of human history in 1945 Berlin, and our mysterious heroine and her rescued friend’s disfigurement both become little more than simple background plot devices.
Narrative quickly shifts to the real focus: our concentration camp survivor Nelly - whose disfigurement has made reconstructing her face exactly as it was sadly impossible. Still, she comes out looking positively radiant, and sets off to find her husband who may or may not have betrayed her to the Nazis.
Without giving away which is true, this dude might be among the biggest abusively self-serving jackasses put to celluloid. Nelly tracks him down to a bombed-out section of Berlin at a nightclub called Phoenix (which for being the movie’s namesake is hardly in the film). Almost immediately, not recognizing her and thinking she is just some random woman bearing a passing resemblance to his late wife lost in the holocaust, he bullies and manipulates her into a plan to pretend to be herself so they can split her inheritance money.
I realize the above amounts to little more than a chronological plot summary of the first 30 minutes, but is meant to emphasize the semi-convoluted narrative gymnastics this goes through simply to allow an abuse victim to see someone she loves for who he truly is.
It’s painful - and to be perfectly honest, more than a little annoying - to watch this woman who survived the atrocities of Auschwitz, settle back into the cycle of abuse with her husband, struggling to rationalize her cognitive dissonance.
I’d wondered how the story might play if Nelly actually was a stranger who happened to look similar to a woman lost in the holocaust, with the manipulative widow persuading her to join this harebrained fraud scheme. Undermines the story’s purpose and the mic drop moment at the end, but could be interesting to watch her as a neutral third party realize the depths this man sunk betraying a woman he claimed to love.
Then again, the mic drop moment is rather nice.
Intrigue becomes a little blunted as we learn this is post-war Germany so the patrolling American GIs aren’t there to be threats, our pair find the greatest plastic surgeon in all of human history in 1945 Berlin, and our mysterious heroine and her rescued friend’s disfigurement both become little more than simple background plot devices.
Narrative quickly shifts to the real focus: our concentration camp survivor Nelly - whose disfigurement has made reconstructing her face exactly as it was sadly impossible. Still, she comes out looking positively radiant, and sets off to find her husband who may or may not have betrayed her to the Nazis.
Without giving away which is true, this dude might be among the biggest abusively self-serving jackasses put to celluloid. Nelly tracks him down to a bombed-out section of Berlin at a nightclub called Phoenix (which for being the movie’s namesake is hardly in the film). Almost immediately, not recognizing her and thinking she is just some random woman bearing a passing resemblance to his late wife lost in the holocaust, he bullies and manipulates her into a plan to pretend to be herself so they can split her inheritance money.
I realize the above amounts to little more than a chronological plot summary of the first 30 minutes, but is meant to emphasize the semi-convoluted narrative gymnastics this goes through simply to allow an abuse victim to see someone she loves for who he truly is.
It’s painful - and to be perfectly honest, more than a little annoying - to watch this woman who survived the atrocities of Auschwitz, settle back into the cycle of abuse with her husband, struggling to rationalize her cognitive dissonance.
I’d wondered how the story might play if Nelly actually was a stranger who happened to look similar to a woman lost in the holocaust, with the manipulative widow persuading her to join this harebrained fraud scheme. Undermines the story’s purpose and the mic drop moment at the end, but could be interesting to watch her as a neutral third party realize the depths this man sunk betraying a woman he claimed to love.
Then again, the mic drop moment is rather nice.
Grave of the Fireflies (1988) - Netflix
I might be placed on some kind of crimes against humanity watchlist for this take, but I am in the microscopic minority who does not like this Studio Ghibli classic.
First to be clear, this is not Miyazaki’s work. I don’t really know if he was involved at all really. I’m fairly certain his efforts were focused on My Neighbor Totoro, which was released simultaneous and intentionally as a double feature with Grave of the Fireflies. Instead, this was directed and written by the studio’s co-founder Isao Takahata adapted from a semi-autobiographical story by Akiyuki Nosaka. Miyazaki isn’t even listed as a producer.
Takahata is a master of cinematic animation in his own right, so I’m not trying to slander him here. But Miyazaki has become something close to sacred in fan circles, and criticizing him specifically is akin to heretical blasphemy. But he was not involved with this, so lower those torches and pitchforks thank you. Besides that, he has a noticeably different approach and style which I appreciate.
For instance, the Miyazaki films I’ve see, which admittedly isn’t a ton, tend to have a nuanced approach toward heroes and villains.
In Spirited Away, No--Face goes from devouring everyone in the bath house to peacefully riding alongside Chihiro on the train minutes later. In Princess Mononoke, Lady Eboshi’s motivations are easy to emphasizes with, just as much as those of the wolves and forest spirits.
But in Grave of the Fireflies, really rather clear who’s meant to be the villain here, and it’s not the abstract concept of war. Surprise, it’s the Americans who are inexplicably firebombing Japan for no good reason at all. Forget the invasion of Manchuria, the Nanjing massacre, and the attack on Pearl Harbor - these atrocities are impacting THEM! As the citizens curse the B-29 Superfortresses lurking in the skies, and hold out for a glorious breakthrough victory by the Imperial Japanese Navy - it’s not so much they hate war, but really hate losing one. I challenge you to relocate this film wholesale to
Germany during the Soviet bombardment of Berlin and tell me it has the same emotional impact on you. In fact, I kind of think that was called Downfall.
And now immediately after that uncharacteristically jingoistic diatribe, I want to try and buy this back. I’ve wrestled with how bothered I am that this bothered me at all.
1: I’ve seen and enjoyed countless films in which Americans are the bad guys; Apocalypse Now is my favorite movie and the Americans are nothing short of demons in that.
2: I generally don’t delve into the victim-blaming of a populace being attacked, invaded, and slaughtered. War is hell no matter who opened the gate.
3: This is reportedly a semi-autobiographical account and it makes sense average citizens wouldn’t care much about the nuance of the conflict as bombs were actively raining down on their heads.
4: There is a strong case to be made about the morality of bombing civilian and residential targets to maximize pain and suffering thereby forcing a surrender - ignoring that it may have just been pure revenge as seen in Dresden, if not outright terrorism.
Ultimately I think it all comes back to the reality that Miyazaki did not make this, which conflicted with my expectations of the film initially thinking that he did. I was confused and a little shocked he would offer such a blatant condemnation of anyone in a conflict when the parts of his filmography I had seen were thematically consistent that the only enemy was conflict itself.
Ironically, that wasn’t even my biggest gripe. An even bigger villain in this than the American B-29s was the orphans’ aunt. I am not only appalled by her, but by her legion of apologists.
I’ve read articles defending her actions both from a cultural perspective and a “fog of war” unfortunate circumstances standpoint. I don’t buy either. If I died and left you in charge of my daughter, and she ended up living alone in a cave stealing food to survive without you being dead or arrested, I’m going to resurrect myself and haunt your ass. Completely unacceptable for an adult to ever let that happen, war or not. It’s not like they ran away and disappeared either; They full on have a direct calm conversation about leaving the house to live in the cave and her response is one of bewildered disappointment and a shrug - as though she’d issued the “My House My Rules” ultimatum, never expecting them to call her bluff.
Inarguably, Seita made a series of poor choices that led to tragedy, and really should have stayed at the house or retuned when things got bad. He was also a teenaged orphan navigating the chaos of war. The adults responsible for his safety and that of his sister’s, with a house and resources to support both of them, should have been shamed and horrified by the consequences of their neglect.
I absolutely hate that the film makes it clear it’s Seita shouldering the full brunt of the guilt in the end - and that that reading comes with the total endorsement of the film’s creator - who is not Miyazaki.
First to be clear, this is not Miyazaki’s work. I don’t really know if he was involved at all really. I’m fairly certain his efforts were focused on My Neighbor Totoro, which was released simultaneous and intentionally as a double feature with Grave of the Fireflies. Instead, this was directed and written by the studio’s co-founder Isao Takahata adapted from a semi-autobiographical story by Akiyuki Nosaka. Miyazaki isn’t even listed as a producer.
Takahata is a master of cinematic animation in his own right, so I’m not trying to slander him here. But Miyazaki has become something close to sacred in fan circles, and criticizing him specifically is akin to heretical blasphemy. But he was not involved with this, so lower those torches and pitchforks thank you. Besides that, he has a noticeably different approach and style which I appreciate.
For instance, the Miyazaki films I’ve see, which admittedly isn’t a ton, tend to have a nuanced approach toward heroes and villains.
In Spirited Away, No--Face goes from devouring everyone in the bath house to peacefully riding alongside Chihiro on the train minutes later. In Princess Mononoke, Lady Eboshi’s motivations are easy to emphasizes with, just as much as those of the wolves and forest spirits.
But in Grave of the Fireflies, really rather clear who’s meant to be the villain here, and it’s not the abstract concept of war. Surprise, it’s the Americans who are inexplicably firebombing Japan for no good reason at all. Forget the invasion of Manchuria, the Nanjing massacre, and the attack on Pearl Harbor - these atrocities are impacting THEM! As the citizens curse the B-29 Superfortresses lurking in the skies, and hold out for a glorious breakthrough victory by the Imperial Japanese Navy - it’s not so much they hate war, but really hate losing one. I challenge you to relocate this film wholesale to
Germany during the Soviet bombardment of Berlin and tell me it has the same emotional impact on you. In fact, I kind of think that was called Downfall.
And now immediately after that uncharacteristically jingoistic diatribe, I want to try and buy this back. I’ve wrestled with how bothered I am that this bothered me at all.
1: I’ve seen and enjoyed countless films in which Americans are the bad guys; Apocalypse Now is my favorite movie and the Americans are nothing short of demons in that.
2: I generally don’t delve into the victim-blaming of a populace being attacked, invaded, and slaughtered. War is hell no matter who opened the gate.
3: This is reportedly a semi-autobiographical account and it makes sense average citizens wouldn’t care much about the nuance of the conflict as bombs were actively raining down on their heads.
4: There is a strong case to be made about the morality of bombing civilian and residential targets to maximize pain and suffering thereby forcing a surrender - ignoring that it may have just been pure revenge as seen in Dresden, if not outright terrorism.
Ultimately I think it all comes back to the reality that Miyazaki did not make this, which conflicted with my expectations of the film initially thinking that he did. I was confused and a little shocked he would offer such a blatant condemnation of anyone in a conflict when the parts of his filmography I had seen were thematically consistent that the only enemy was conflict itself.
Ironically, that wasn’t even my biggest gripe. An even bigger villain in this than the American B-29s was the orphans’ aunt. I am not only appalled by her, but by her legion of apologists.
I’ve read articles defending her actions both from a cultural perspective and a “fog of war” unfortunate circumstances standpoint. I don’t buy either. If I died and left you in charge of my daughter, and she ended up living alone in a cave stealing food to survive without you being dead or arrested, I’m going to resurrect myself and haunt your ass. Completely unacceptable for an adult to ever let that happen, war or not. It’s not like they ran away and disappeared either; They full on have a direct calm conversation about leaving the house to live in the cave and her response is one of bewildered disappointment and a shrug - as though she’d issued the “My House My Rules” ultimatum, never expecting them to call her bluff.
Inarguably, Seita made a series of poor choices that led to tragedy, and really should have stayed at the house or retuned when things got bad. He was also a teenaged orphan navigating the chaos of war. The adults responsible for his safety and that of his sister’s, with a house and resources to support both of them, should have been shamed and horrified by the consequences of their neglect.
I absolutely hate that the film makes it clear it’s Seita shouldering the full brunt of the guilt in the end - and that that reading comes with the total endorsement of the film’s creator - who is not Miyazaki.
The Killing Fields (1984) - Tubi
If anything represents the sometimes detached Americentric perspective of Hollywood, it’s that the late Haing S. Ngor won the best supporting actor Oscar for his portrayal of Cambodian journalist Dith Pran. He’s quite actually an absolute badass of a leading man here with everyone else in the cast playing elaborate window dressing to his story.
The truth of this sneaks up on you with Pran flanked by a shockingly young and strapping Sam Waterston as our embedded New York Times journalist and narrator, and John Malkovich as the eccentrically brash photo journalist. You could be forgiven for thinking the white American audience-stand-in and his quirky camera-guy sidekick were the main characters, or at least parts of an ensemble. But then the Americans are sent back to the States halfway through to combat atrocities by collecting awards and writing strongly-worded letters, while Pran navigates the horrors of the Khmer Rouge alone.
That’s when the story truly starts and we get front row seats to the vile nature of anti-intellectualism and toxic nostalgia in the form of the Khmer Rouge - murdering people for wearing glasses or knowing French or having a job needing more education than a taxi driver. All part of Pol Pot’s push for an agrarian and traditional society, brought to you by the barrel of a gun.
Insert the stark juxtaposition of New York skyscrapers and cocktail parties, contrasted with Cambodia’s rice fields and firing squads. America might as well be an advanced alien spaceship orbiting earth in its detached exceptionalism. Here we have a journalist honored and celebrated for his writing, while Pran is beaten with clubs trying desperately to hide that he can read. The USS Exceptionalism embraces Pran’s family as refugees seeking asylum from the Khmer Rogue’s insanity, while Pran learns not even the families of Pol Pot’s lieutenants are above accusation and annihilation.
Despite the startling truth of these parallel worlds existing in the same universe, this ends on a hopeful note: that ultimately the human spirit is relentless in its pursuit of both justice and the preservation of itself, that friendship and fellowship triumph, and while hate and violence are parts of our shared human history, we can aspire to a better world.
Or I could be reading too much into it. But it does end with a hug. And maybe sometimes, that’s all we need.
The truth of this sneaks up on you with Pran flanked by a shockingly young and strapping Sam Waterston as our embedded New York Times journalist and narrator, and John Malkovich as the eccentrically brash photo journalist. You could be forgiven for thinking the white American audience-stand-in and his quirky camera-guy sidekick were the main characters, or at least parts of an ensemble. But then the Americans are sent back to the States halfway through to combat atrocities by collecting awards and writing strongly-worded letters, while Pran navigates the horrors of the Khmer Rouge alone.
That’s when the story truly starts and we get front row seats to the vile nature of anti-intellectualism and toxic nostalgia in the form of the Khmer Rouge - murdering people for wearing glasses or knowing French or having a job needing more education than a taxi driver. All part of Pol Pot’s push for an agrarian and traditional society, brought to you by the barrel of a gun.
Insert the stark juxtaposition of New York skyscrapers and cocktail parties, contrasted with Cambodia’s rice fields and firing squads. America might as well be an advanced alien spaceship orbiting earth in its detached exceptionalism. Here we have a journalist honored and celebrated for his writing, while Pran is beaten with clubs trying desperately to hide that he can read. The USS Exceptionalism embraces Pran’s family as refugees seeking asylum from the Khmer Rogue’s insanity, while Pran learns not even the families of Pol Pot’s lieutenants are above accusation and annihilation.
Despite the startling truth of these parallel worlds existing in the same universe, this ends on a hopeful note: that ultimately the human spirit is relentless in its pursuit of both justice and the preservation of itself, that friendship and fellowship triumph, and while hate and violence are parts of our shared human history, we can aspire to a better world.
Or I could be reading too much into it. But it does end with a hug. And maybe sometimes, that’s all we need.
Last edited:
Löwenherz
Starter
-Part 2 of 3
The Death of Stalin (2014) - Kanopy
All the President’s Men (1976) - Kanopy
Cabaret (1972) - Tubi
Sophie’s Choice (1982) - Tubi
The Death of Stalin (2014) - Kanopy
This easily could have been a tense political drama, and it would be so much lesser for it.
As a satire I find it far more functional and profound, doing a phenomenal job humanizing historical figures I’ve only ever read about in archived news articles and history books through the lens of Cold War fears of nuclear annihilation.
I mean, humanizing everyone except Stalin, who comes out as the monstrous narcissistic psychopath he was, even as he spends the vast majority of the film dead.
But for everyone else? Stroke of genius casting everyman American and British actors speaking in common English as the clandestine Soviet Council of Ministers - chiefly Steve Buscemi, the most “regular dude” of actors Hollywood has ever allowed to be famous (respect to John Cazale), as Nikita Khrushchev, whom everyone affectionately calls “Nikki.”
Jason Isaacs, whose most prominent role was the villain in The Patriot, is a verified scene stealer playing Marshall of Victory Georgy Zhukov with gloriously magnetic bravado absolutely embodying the term “magnificent bastard.” I really hope Zhukov was actually like this in reality.
In a parallel universe where this is a dramatic thriller, heavy Russian-accented whispers slither through stark, dimly-lit rooms as eyes dart back and forth and sweat beads on foreheads.
But in this world, the Council frantically tries in real time to square the circle of contradictions, follow party protocol, and cover their assess in fetching a doctor for a dying-to-dead man who ordered the executions of doctors for being intellectuals - all while that man’s corpse lies on the floor of the room where they’re trying to call a quorum. But with this borderline slapstick farce energy, the panic still reads real as the Ministers know even for the elite inner circle, there is always another purity test lurking.
The dialogue in this is fantastically swift and snarky.
“What the hell do I know about funerals?” Khrushchev sneers in a vaguely New York accent after the Council, himself included, votes “unanimously” to have him organize Stalin’s. It’s all of course exceedingly ridiculous, which only works to highlight the absurdity of the Soviet system in the tradition of Brazil, The Fireman’s Ball, and Closely Watched Trains.
Totalitarian regimes depend on constantly projecting an aura of inescapable authority. Satire slices right through the myth of might when you realize they’re typically just a collection of schmucks cosplaying as Machiavelli, but closer in competency to the crew from Parks and Rec.
As a satire I find it far more functional and profound, doing a phenomenal job humanizing historical figures I’ve only ever read about in archived news articles and history books through the lens of Cold War fears of nuclear annihilation.
I mean, humanizing everyone except Stalin, who comes out as the monstrous narcissistic psychopath he was, even as he spends the vast majority of the film dead.
But for everyone else? Stroke of genius casting everyman American and British actors speaking in common English as the clandestine Soviet Council of Ministers - chiefly Steve Buscemi, the most “regular dude” of actors Hollywood has ever allowed to be famous (respect to John Cazale), as Nikita Khrushchev, whom everyone affectionately calls “Nikki.”
Jason Isaacs, whose most prominent role was the villain in The Patriot, is a verified scene stealer playing Marshall of Victory Georgy Zhukov with gloriously magnetic bravado absolutely embodying the term “magnificent bastard.” I really hope Zhukov was actually like this in reality.
In a parallel universe where this is a dramatic thriller, heavy Russian-accented whispers slither through stark, dimly-lit rooms as eyes dart back and forth and sweat beads on foreheads.
But in this world, the Council frantically tries in real time to square the circle of contradictions, follow party protocol, and cover their assess in fetching a doctor for a dying-to-dead man who ordered the executions of doctors for being intellectuals - all while that man’s corpse lies on the floor of the room where they’re trying to call a quorum. But with this borderline slapstick farce energy, the panic still reads real as the Ministers know even for the elite inner circle, there is always another purity test lurking.
The dialogue in this is fantastically swift and snarky.
“What the hell do I know about funerals?” Khrushchev sneers in a vaguely New York accent after the Council, himself included, votes “unanimously” to have him organize Stalin’s. It’s all of course exceedingly ridiculous, which only works to highlight the absurdity of the Soviet system in the tradition of Brazil, The Fireman’s Ball, and Closely Watched Trains.
Totalitarian regimes depend on constantly projecting an aura of inescapable authority. Satire slices right through the myth of might when you realize they’re typically just a collection of schmucks cosplaying as Machiavelli, but closer in competency to the crew from Parks and Rec.
All the President’s Men (1976) - Kanopy
A political thriller with no guns, no car chases, no ticking bombs, no assassination plots, no sex scandals, no threats of nuclear war or world domination. Just a procedural account of how grindingly difficult true professional journalism is, why it needs to be that way for a democracy to function, and the importance of verifying truth through multiple sources.
It is shocking how exquisitely tense this film is for its more than 2 hour runtime considering so much of it is Woodward and Bernstein simply waiting to talk to someone. Hours spent in office waiting rooms, or with the phone to their ear while on hold, or driving to a possible source that usually doesn’t pan out, or sometimes in a stranger’s living room but more often on their porch with a door slammed in their face, or of course, in a dark parking garage where Deep Throat might show up (by the way, don’t Google that without Woodward and Bernstein included. Yikes).
Deep Throat is possibly the most famous source in the history of journalism, and most scintillating aspect of this story that transcends even the fog of memory. People who don’t understand or even know what happened with Watergate have likely heard of Deep Throat or are at least instantly familiar with the enduring symbol of a mysterious figure in a shadowy location sharing secrets with a journalist.
In truth though, while Deep Throat was an important if not essential cog in the Watergate investigation, he wasn’t the sole or even primary source. Really all he did, at least for most of the investigation, was provide background information in the form of confirming what the reporters had already uncovered or deduced from other sources. Theoretically, you could remove Deep Throat entirely from the story, and while it would have been much harder, much slower, and much less impactful, the reporting on Watergate could have continued through the sheer force of determination and journalistic integrity of our young intrepid reporters.
This is the very non-satirical definition of the cliched “intrepid reporter” - not really out of fear of retaliatory violence, although that is briefly mentioned, but of pure embarrassment.
Cold calling people who spit venom in the form of curses, shame, and insults. Government officials employing the soft power tactic of condescending denials and “do you know who I am?” dismissals. The chorus of “get off my property or I’ll call the cops” ringing through the streets of DC. Conceptualize the pride-consuming horror of returning to a source’s home at a night time hour with an AM in it, after realizing a vital bit of information was left unclear in your notes.
Ah yes, the notes. The scrupulous scratches and scribbles on napkins and legal pads and backs of envelopes that brought down an administration. How gloriously punk rock.
Perhaps surprisingly, this story doesn’t end with Nixon’s resignation outside a sterile press release acknowledging that fact just before the credits roll. The actual last scene in the movie shows Nixon in triumph as his second inauguration plays on TV while Woodward and
Bernstein, fresh off their biggest failure of the investigation, furiously hammer away at typewriters.
And that, well beyond a man in a trench coat whispering secrets from the shadows, is the enduring symbol of Woodward and Bernstein.
That and the notes.
It is shocking how exquisitely tense this film is for its more than 2 hour runtime considering so much of it is Woodward and Bernstein simply waiting to talk to someone. Hours spent in office waiting rooms, or with the phone to their ear while on hold, or driving to a possible source that usually doesn’t pan out, or sometimes in a stranger’s living room but more often on their porch with a door slammed in their face, or of course, in a dark parking garage where Deep Throat might show up (by the way, don’t Google that without Woodward and Bernstein included. Yikes).
Deep Throat is possibly the most famous source in the history of journalism, and most scintillating aspect of this story that transcends even the fog of memory. People who don’t understand or even know what happened with Watergate have likely heard of Deep Throat or are at least instantly familiar with the enduring symbol of a mysterious figure in a shadowy location sharing secrets with a journalist.
In truth though, while Deep Throat was an important if not essential cog in the Watergate investigation, he wasn’t the sole or even primary source. Really all he did, at least for most of the investigation, was provide background information in the form of confirming what the reporters had already uncovered or deduced from other sources. Theoretically, you could remove Deep Throat entirely from the story, and while it would have been much harder, much slower, and much less impactful, the reporting on Watergate could have continued through the sheer force of determination and journalistic integrity of our young intrepid reporters.
This is the very non-satirical definition of the cliched “intrepid reporter” - not really out of fear of retaliatory violence, although that is briefly mentioned, but of pure embarrassment.
Cold calling people who spit venom in the form of curses, shame, and insults. Government officials employing the soft power tactic of condescending denials and “do you know who I am?” dismissals. The chorus of “get off my property or I’ll call the cops” ringing through the streets of DC. Conceptualize the pride-consuming horror of returning to a source’s home at a night time hour with an AM in it, after realizing a vital bit of information was left unclear in your notes.
Ah yes, the notes. The scrupulous scratches and scribbles on napkins and legal pads and backs of envelopes that brought down an administration. How gloriously punk rock.
Perhaps surprisingly, this story doesn’t end with Nixon’s resignation outside a sterile press release acknowledging that fact just before the credits roll. The actual last scene in the movie shows Nixon in triumph as his second inauguration plays on TV while Woodward and
Bernstein, fresh off their biggest failure of the investigation, furiously hammer away at typewriters.
And that, well beyond a man in a trench coat whispering secrets from the shadows, is the enduring symbol of Woodward and Bernstein.
That and the notes.
Cabaret (1972) - Tubi
Long before Nathan Rabin coined the Magical Pixie Dream Girl pejorative, Liza Minnelli was playing the trope straight and earning an Oscar for it.
But here it absolutely works because the foil to Sally Bowles’ eccentrically-extreme quirky energy is Michael York’s Brian who despite buttoned-up appearances, is not a cloistered sensitive brooding artistic man-child desperately in need of some love and life experiences. He’s droll, dryly sarcastic, typically stoic and reserved, but undeniably infused with passion and sexual exploits he neither hides nor advertises.
I guess, in short, he’s British. And it would seem being classically British is the antidote to the scourge the MPDG has wrought upon a legion of emo American boys and romcoms alike.
“Have you ever slept with a dwarf?”
Sally chirps apropos to nothing while walking with Brian on a public street.
“Once but it wasn’t a lasting relationship.”
Brian answers casually, almost reflexively without so much as a grin or a glance to hint if he’s kidding, and Sally is left dumbfounded standing silent on the sidewalk seemingly racing to think if Brian was joking or serious as he casually walks on ahead.
Of course, Sally and Brian’s college dorm romance isn’t especially why this was up for Best Picture or is remembered today. It’s the Bob Fosse musical interludes (which Minnelli slays), the innocuously strange then darkly sinister Emcee at the Kit Kat Klub, and that playing out in the background is the rise of Naziism during the last days of the Weimar Republic.
And it is a slow creep. In the first part of the movie you scarcely notice it at all outside a dry German-language radio news report that sneaks in the word “Nazi” alerting even my Anglophonic ears. Then it’s a flyer here, a flippant dismissive discussion there - it almost feels as though the film is being slowly invaded by another movie; like you were watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s and it slowly morphed into Schindler’s List.
The true turning point comes as Brian has a pleasant lunch with Max, whom we’ll call a mutual friend of his and Sally’s. Seemingly mid-conversation, a young blonde boy, maybe pre-teen, stands at the center of the patio and begins to sing unprompted Tomorrow Belongs to Me. Camera pans to show he’s a Hitler Youth - and as the song builds toward a crescendo, most of the other patrons one-by-one spontaneously join in, some even choosing to stand.
“You still think you can control them?” Brian rhetorically asks Max, who then disappears from the movie.
After that, Brownshirts line the streets and send Brian to the hospital. The kindly elderly landlords start spouting Nazi propaganda as established fact and common sense. The Emcee sings a song at the club comparing a relationship with a Jew to bestiality. And the Kit Kat Klub that once threw a man out for wearing a swastika, now has an audience of SS officers.
It’s a change that comes both slowly and all at once. And the most chilling part, as the genre changes, the culture changes, the world changes, is seeing warm and welcoming characters from the romcom become Nazis in the war drama. Brian and Sally’s story plays out to its natural conclusion (which she telegraphs in the very beginning with the song Mein Herr), but you’re still left to wonder how everything around them shifted into the threshold of hell to come.
Even as you watched it happen with your own eyes.
But here it absolutely works because the foil to Sally Bowles’ eccentrically-extreme quirky energy is Michael York’s Brian who despite buttoned-up appearances, is not a cloistered sensitive brooding artistic man-child desperately in need of some love and life experiences. He’s droll, dryly sarcastic, typically stoic and reserved, but undeniably infused with passion and sexual exploits he neither hides nor advertises.
I guess, in short, he’s British. And it would seem being classically British is the antidote to the scourge the MPDG has wrought upon a legion of emo American boys and romcoms alike.
“Have you ever slept with a dwarf?”
Sally chirps apropos to nothing while walking with Brian on a public street.
“Once but it wasn’t a lasting relationship.”
Brian answers casually, almost reflexively without so much as a grin or a glance to hint if he’s kidding, and Sally is left dumbfounded standing silent on the sidewalk seemingly racing to think if Brian was joking or serious as he casually walks on ahead.
Of course, Sally and Brian’s college dorm romance isn’t especially why this was up for Best Picture or is remembered today. It’s the Bob Fosse musical interludes (which Minnelli slays), the innocuously strange then darkly sinister Emcee at the Kit Kat Klub, and that playing out in the background is the rise of Naziism during the last days of the Weimar Republic.
And it is a slow creep. In the first part of the movie you scarcely notice it at all outside a dry German-language radio news report that sneaks in the word “Nazi” alerting even my Anglophonic ears. Then it’s a flyer here, a flippant dismissive discussion there - it almost feels as though the film is being slowly invaded by another movie; like you were watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s and it slowly morphed into Schindler’s List.
The true turning point comes as Brian has a pleasant lunch with Max, whom we’ll call a mutual friend of his and Sally’s. Seemingly mid-conversation, a young blonde boy, maybe pre-teen, stands at the center of the patio and begins to sing unprompted Tomorrow Belongs to Me. Camera pans to show he’s a Hitler Youth - and as the song builds toward a crescendo, most of the other patrons one-by-one spontaneously join in, some even choosing to stand.
“You still think you can control them?” Brian rhetorically asks Max, who then disappears from the movie.
After that, Brownshirts line the streets and send Brian to the hospital. The kindly elderly landlords start spouting Nazi propaganda as established fact and common sense. The Emcee sings a song at the club comparing a relationship with a Jew to bestiality. And the Kit Kat Klub that once threw a man out for wearing a swastika, now has an audience of SS officers.
It’s a change that comes both slowly and all at once. And the most chilling part, as the genre changes, the culture changes, the world changes, is seeing warm and welcoming characters from the romcom become Nazis in the war drama. Brian and Sally’s story plays out to its natural conclusion (which she telegraphs in the very beginning with the song Mein Herr), but you’re still left to wonder how everything around them shifted into the threshold of hell to come.
Even as you watched it happen with your own eyes.
Sophie’s Choice (1982) - Tubi
A film so famous its title has become a part of our cultural lexicon. Understandably most discussions of this center on Meryl Streep’s Sophie forced by unrelenting and unconscionable cruelty to make a ghoulish decision at the gates of Auschwitz.
Ultimately though, the majority of the film takes place years after the Holocaust, and is an exploration of lingering psychological trauma and mental health challenges crippling our present, paralyzing our growth, and robbing us of any chance at happiness.
Brilliant move by Pakula (who also expertly directed All the President’s Men) kicking this off with the shockingly repulsive verbal assault on Sophie by her lover Nathan (played with equal parts magnetic charisma and creeping madness by Kevin Kline in his first film role) while she pleads forgiveness for an unknown slight, introducing us to the dynamic of these characters immediately rather than dwelling on the narrator’s meandering vapid purple prose as the novel does. Instead we’re thrown directly into the explosive volatility of the relationship at the center of the story.
Nathan’s savage assault on Sophie is never mentioned again, but haunts the first half of the film like a vengeful specter hiding just off screen. Even as Nathan and Sophie dance, and picnic, and read poetry you’re on high alert waiting for the hidden phantom to strike again while also left wondering “wait, wasn’t this supposed to be about World War 2?”
Both these Chekov’s Guns fire essentially together, and we see that Nathan’s intensely vicious paranoid outbursts are merely a regular part of their relationship, and we get our first flashback glimpse of Sophie surviving in Auschwitz, enjoying a semi-charmed life as far as concentration camp prisoners go, largely thanks to her status as a beautiful blonde christian pole who speaks perfect German. So she merely endures slave labor, sexual assault, and being called a dirty thief and worthless animal by a Nazi-raised child, who then gives Sophie a tour of her room and scrapbook.
While the two narrative strands are compelling you’re still left to wonder exactly what they have to do with each other: a trauma-bond codependent abusive relationship isn’t really a metaphor for the wanton depravity inflicted by the Nazis in the Holocaust. That is until the infamous scene toward the very end, and you see exactly what choice the SS officer forced on Sophie. Then it dawned on me that her relationship with Nathan is emblematic of her desperate need to be forgiven and loved, combined with her insatiable need to be punished and hated. And only a drug-abusing paranoid schizophrenic could give her the twisted relationship she felt she deserved.
Realizing that made my stomach drop like a lead balloon; kind of a dull gloomy thud of an epiphany. But what I really dwelled on was the psychology of the SS officer. It’s not really a novel question, but how does someone get like that? What has to go wrong in your life for you to casually torture a stranger in the most intimately devastating way possible and get absolutely nothing from it outside the satisfaction of the act itself?
I understand the rise of German fascism had roots in economic anxieties linked to hyperinflation and the Great Depression, lingering psychological trauma and resentment from World War 1 and the Treaty of Versailles, disgust with the inept chaos of the Weimar Republic, and the exploitation of deep-seated bigotry through propaganda offering a scapegoat for the previous three.
But at a more granular level. fascism springs from male insecurities surrounding inadequacy and impotence. Essentially, scared, vulnerable, aimless men latch onto an overtly-hypermasculine movement to shield themselves from the terror and torment of emasculation.
“Say what you will about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it’s an ethos.”
No Walter, it’s a perverted pathos of power addiction through domination, violence, and cruelty with the only true authority being might makes right. That’s how a man can choose to tear a child from her mother’s arms, send the child to the gas chambers, and coerce the mother into believing for the rest of her life the choice was ever hers to make. Unflinching barbarism is the ultimate rush for the power addicted phoney Ubermench.
And it’s all a sick facade anyway. Frightened little boys playing dress up in the visage of their absent or abusive fathers, picking fights they know they can win against the most marginalized among us. Nihilists bathed in bathos, masking their broken psyches and shame behind the suffering they can inflect on others.
No Donny, these men are cowards.
Ultimately though, the majority of the film takes place years after the Holocaust, and is an exploration of lingering psychological trauma and mental health challenges crippling our present, paralyzing our growth, and robbing us of any chance at happiness.
Brilliant move by Pakula (who also expertly directed All the President’s Men) kicking this off with the shockingly repulsive verbal assault on Sophie by her lover Nathan (played with equal parts magnetic charisma and creeping madness by Kevin Kline in his first film role) while she pleads forgiveness for an unknown slight, introducing us to the dynamic of these characters immediately rather than dwelling on the narrator’s meandering vapid purple prose as the novel does. Instead we’re thrown directly into the explosive volatility of the relationship at the center of the story.
Nathan’s savage assault on Sophie is never mentioned again, but haunts the first half of the film like a vengeful specter hiding just off screen. Even as Nathan and Sophie dance, and picnic, and read poetry you’re on high alert waiting for the hidden phantom to strike again while also left wondering “wait, wasn’t this supposed to be about World War 2?”
Both these Chekov’s Guns fire essentially together, and we see that Nathan’s intensely vicious paranoid outbursts are merely a regular part of their relationship, and we get our first flashback glimpse of Sophie surviving in Auschwitz, enjoying a semi-charmed life as far as concentration camp prisoners go, largely thanks to her status as a beautiful blonde christian pole who speaks perfect German. So she merely endures slave labor, sexual assault, and being called a dirty thief and worthless animal by a Nazi-raised child, who then gives Sophie a tour of her room and scrapbook.
While the two narrative strands are compelling you’re still left to wonder exactly what they have to do with each other: a trauma-bond codependent abusive relationship isn’t really a metaphor for the wanton depravity inflicted by the Nazis in the Holocaust. That is until the infamous scene toward the very end, and you see exactly what choice the SS officer forced on Sophie. Then it dawned on me that her relationship with Nathan is emblematic of her desperate need to be forgiven and loved, combined with her insatiable need to be punished and hated. And only a drug-abusing paranoid schizophrenic could give her the twisted relationship she felt she deserved.
Realizing that made my stomach drop like a lead balloon; kind of a dull gloomy thud of an epiphany. But what I really dwelled on was the psychology of the SS officer. It’s not really a novel question, but how does someone get like that? What has to go wrong in your life for you to casually torture a stranger in the most intimately devastating way possible and get absolutely nothing from it outside the satisfaction of the act itself?
I understand the rise of German fascism had roots in economic anxieties linked to hyperinflation and the Great Depression, lingering psychological trauma and resentment from World War 1 and the Treaty of Versailles, disgust with the inept chaos of the Weimar Republic, and the exploitation of deep-seated bigotry through propaganda offering a scapegoat for the previous three.
But at a more granular level. fascism springs from male insecurities surrounding inadequacy and impotence. Essentially, scared, vulnerable, aimless men latch onto an overtly-hypermasculine movement to shield themselves from the terror and torment of emasculation.
“Say what you will about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it’s an ethos.”
No Walter, it’s a perverted pathos of power addiction through domination, violence, and cruelty with the only true authority being might makes right. That’s how a man can choose to tear a child from her mother’s arms, send the child to the gas chambers, and coerce the mother into believing for the rest of her life the choice was ever hers to make. Unflinching barbarism is the ultimate rush for the power addicted phoney Ubermench.
And it’s all a sick facade anyway. Frightened little boys playing dress up in the visage of their absent or abusive fathers, picking fights they know they can win against the most marginalized among us. Nihilists bathed in bathos, masking their broken psyches and shame behind the suffering they can inflect on others.
No Donny, these men are cowards.
Last edited:
Löwenherz
Starter
-Part 3 of 3
The Battle of Algiers (1967) - Tubi
All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) - Tubi
The Great Dictator (1940) - Kanopy
The Battle of Algiers (1967) - Tubi
An asymmetrical urban guerrilla clash between an occupied populace and an invasive military power is perhaps the ideal backdrop for gritty Italian neorealism. I mean, Umberto D. was wildly impactful and emotionally evocative, but he never smuggled a gun past a military checkpoint to assassinate the dude who stole his dog.
There is the general sense the FLN resistance fighters are “the good guys” seeking self-determination and political and cultural freedom, while the French are aggressively and immorally clinging to a bygone era as a colonial power. However, the film is far more interested in presenting the cold hard reality of the struggle from both sides in stark black and white with an almost documentary lens. There are no virtuous heroes or irredeemable villains, no stirring speeches, no truly noble sacrifices - nothing but a raw, brutal, perpetual street battle as bodies build on both sides.
Even as the FLN and French Foreign Legion resort to more extreme and questionably defensible tactics, this is framed as two sides of a conflict entrenched in their positions, unwilling to negotiate or compromise - and the inevitable escalatory cycle of violence that ensues.
The French colonel in charge of the suppression operation even openly acknowledges the parallels of a mere decade before the start of the revolt, the French resistance was active in the Paris underground working to expel the Nazis. There seems to be this nod “across the field of war” of the sides understanding each other’s positions; they just don’t agree nor care and will take any means necessary to prevail.
And so,
The Algerians revolt and protest.
The French send in paratroopers.
The Algerians assassinate French sympathizers.
The French establish military checkpoints.
The Algerians blow up cafes.
The French shut down the Casbah.
The Algerians organize a general strike.
The French target leaders of the resistance.
On and on and on, until there’s enough bloodletting in the twisted game of chicken mutilation for one side to blink.
It’s wild to reflect on watching Cléo from 5 to 7 and hearing radio reports of this same conflict as background noise while our heroine motors around Paris. Gives off the air of Parisians tracking a soccer game and cheering on the tricolor, without any context or care for the realities on the ground across the Mediterranean.
Demonstrates the importance of films like this taking a dispassionate but equally visceral view of conflict, cutting through the detached malaise and demanding people look clear-eyed upon the harrowing and harsh reality beyond the headlines.
There is the general sense the FLN resistance fighters are “the good guys” seeking self-determination and political and cultural freedom, while the French are aggressively and immorally clinging to a bygone era as a colonial power. However, the film is far more interested in presenting the cold hard reality of the struggle from both sides in stark black and white with an almost documentary lens. There are no virtuous heroes or irredeemable villains, no stirring speeches, no truly noble sacrifices - nothing but a raw, brutal, perpetual street battle as bodies build on both sides.
Even as the FLN and French Foreign Legion resort to more extreme and questionably defensible tactics, this is framed as two sides of a conflict entrenched in their positions, unwilling to negotiate or compromise - and the inevitable escalatory cycle of violence that ensues.
The French colonel in charge of the suppression operation even openly acknowledges the parallels of a mere decade before the start of the revolt, the French resistance was active in the Paris underground working to expel the Nazis. There seems to be this nod “across the field of war” of the sides understanding each other’s positions; they just don’t agree nor care and will take any means necessary to prevail.
And so,
The Algerians revolt and protest.
The French send in paratroopers.
The Algerians assassinate French sympathizers.
The French establish military checkpoints.
The Algerians blow up cafes.
The French shut down the Casbah.
The Algerians organize a general strike.
The French target leaders of the resistance.
On and on and on, until there’s enough bloodletting in the twisted game of chicken mutilation for one side to blink.
It’s wild to reflect on watching Cléo from 5 to 7 and hearing radio reports of this same conflict as background noise while our heroine motors around Paris. Gives off the air of Parisians tracking a soccer game and cheering on the tricolor, without any context or care for the realities on the ground across the Mediterranean.
Demonstrates the importance of films like this taking a dispassionate but equally visceral view of conflict, cutting through the detached malaise and demanding people look clear-eyed upon the harrowing and harsh reality beyond the headlines.
All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) - Tubi
The first of three rather highly acclaimed films adapted from the novel - this version winning Best Picture might be the least of its accolades; Variety at the time said if the League of Nations produced this in every language and distributed it across the globe, it would single-handedly end war altogether
It’s been nearly 100 years and it hasn’t managed that feat yet, but it’s still a hugely impressive film accomplishment for its time. The tracking shot of men preparing to charge from the trench was legitimately cool, especially considering the tools available in the late 20s. And the overall unapologetic bluntness of the war action is well appreciated.
The melodramatic turn of the performances, and the fact I could hardly tell the main actors apart, dilutes the message in what is otherwise a faithful adaptation, and still worth examining.
Plus, World War 1 is criminally overshadowed by its more examined and narratively exhilarating sequel. Ask the average American and you’d be lucky if they know about the concept of trench warfare, that is outside of sports metaphors and workplace hyperbole. Even Armistice Day was changed to honor all veterans of all wars, rather than specifically the day the guns finally stopped after four years of slaughter and “God spoke to mankind” in the silence.
We talk of militarism, alliances, imperialism, and nationalism being the “MAIN” causes of WW1, largely because the acronym is neat. But at the heart of it there is something more human, more relatable, and ultimately entirely more dumb.
War was fun! At least it seemed like it after more than 40 years without experiencing one up close in Europe, all while rampaging through Africa and Asia compelled by the White Man’s Burden to bring civilization to the “savages” with a Maxim Gun. And as Londoners, and Parisians, and Berliners enjoyed their morning tea, coffee, and, I don’t know, probably beer I guess, they thrilled at the news of the glorious victories of their grand national armies fighting battles they would never see, in lands they would never visit, against people they would never know..
Pride swelled. Egos boosted. Arrogance, ignorance, and incompetence collided - the Devil’s Triangle for disasters - and the European powers skipped gleefully toward Armageddon.
Maybe we need to remake All Quiet on the Western Front for another century before people finally get the picture.
BEFORE
View attachment 14786
La Mitrailleuse (The Machine Gun)
CRW Nevinson (1915)
AFTER
View attachment 14787
Paths of Glory
CRW Nevinson (1917)
It’s been nearly 100 years and it hasn’t managed that feat yet, but it’s still a hugely impressive film accomplishment for its time. The tracking shot of men preparing to charge from the trench was legitimately cool, especially considering the tools available in the late 20s. And the overall unapologetic bluntness of the war action is well appreciated.
The melodramatic turn of the performances, and the fact I could hardly tell the main actors apart, dilutes the message in what is otherwise a faithful adaptation, and still worth examining.
Plus, World War 1 is criminally overshadowed by its more examined and narratively exhilarating sequel. Ask the average American and you’d be lucky if they know about the concept of trench warfare, that is outside of sports metaphors and workplace hyperbole. Even Armistice Day was changed to honor all veterans of all wars, rather than specifically the day the guns finally stopped after four years of slaughter and “God spoke to mankind” in the silence.
We talk of militarism, alliances, imperialism, and nationalism being the “MAIN” causes of WW1, largely because the acronym is neat. But at the heart of it there is something more human, more relatable, and ultimately entirely more dumb.
War was fun! At least it seemed like it after more than 40 years without experiencing one up close in Europe, all while rampaging through Africa and Asia compelled by the White Man’s Burden to bring civilization to the “savages” with a Maxim Gun. And as Londoners, and Parisians, and Berliners enjoyed their morning tea, coffee, and, I don’t know, probably beer I guess, they thrilled at the news of the glorious victories of their grand national armies fighting battles they would never see, in lands they would never visit, against people they would never know..
Pride swelled. Egos boosted. Arrogance, ignorance, and incompetence collided - the Devil’s Triangle for disasters - and the European powers skipped gleefully toward Armageddon.
Maybe we need to remake All Quiet on the Western Front for another century before people finally get the picture.
BEFORE
View attachment 14786
La Mitrailleuse (The Machine Gun)
CRW Nevinson (1915)
AFTER
View attachment 14787
Paths of Glory
CRW Nevinson (1917)
The Great Dictator (1940) - Kanopy
It’s difficult to overstate just how famous Charlie Chaplin was. A silent film star who got his start more than a century ago, and still today more than 90% of people in the US know his name according to a recent YouGov poll. More than heard of him; I bet an anonymous person off the street would recognize a silhouette of The Tramp without prompting.
Consider the impact of arguably the world’s first superstar in his prime using his fame and platform - his first “talkie” no less - on a satirical takedown of a politician. Specifically, at the time production started, a polarizing, but in certain circles quite poplar foreign leader, considered brash and aggressive, but lauded for producing an “economic miracle” and returning pride and strength to Germany - Time’s 1938 Man of the Year* - and of whom Chaplin happened to be an uncanny doppelgänger.
And Chaplin does not hold back, playing a dual role of both Hitler stand-in Adenoid Hynkel and an amnesiac WWI hero / Jewish barber Everyman. The “amnesiac” part is only important so Chaplin can drop a regular dude into the middle of the Nuremberg Laws without any prep or context, and have the very natural and human response of not terror or outrage, but simply “wait, WTF? That’s weird.”
That leads to a patented Chaplin slapstick bit in which the SS become the Keystone Cops, and while certainly cathartic, with hindsight it has this ominous sense of naivety. Chaplin later said had he known the depths of the horrors in Nazi Germany, he would not have made this film; a point driven home most prominently when the barber is sent to a concentration camp, and it’s presented as an inconvenient bummer from which he rather quickly escapes. The film works as an unintended time capsule of what was known, and what was unknown, on the precipice of war.
Still the barber’s story is an essential component to ground the narrative in the human impact of draconian policy and politics. But Chaplin’s dissection of Hitler, particularly how he used language and symbols, is fascinating. Hynkel’s speech near the beginning is a mix of harsh sounding gibberish and random German words.
“Auc der strapzint ein berzect der wienerschnitzel und a lager vintin sauerkraut!”
Hynkel, the “Phooey” of Tomania, screams to a cheering crowd. The parody is rather juvenile and the content is inane; How could this be quality satire? Quite actually, it’s a brilliant demonstration that Hitler’s words were ultimately empty, meaningless placeholders for the most primal guttural imagery. The words didn’t matter. It was entirely inflection and pantomime to evoke raw emotions. People weren’t listening to a political speech; they were watching a vaudeville. Who better to recognize that fact and bring it to light on the big screen than the greatest silent film star in history?
It also sets up the perfect juxtaposition when the twin stories of Hynkel and the barber at last dovetail, and the Jew, through convoluted happenstance, stands before Tomania’s invading armies in the dictator’s place. But this is not really the Everyman character from the film; this is Charlie Chaplin as himself taking Hitler’s place at the podium to deliver his own speech to the world.
Other than Hynkel dancing with an inflatable globe, this is the most famous scene of the film and likely why Chaplin chose to make it at all. The contrast is obvious: Chaplin is not performing here. He’s pleading directly with the audience and the world to listen to the better angels of our nature for unity, liberty, and progress. To shun the powerful, bitter, and hateful men who turn us on each other for their own greed and ambitions. And for us to aspire to build a world based on brotherhood and the prosperity and happiness of our fellow man.
OK, whatever LostGener
And guess what, this movie was super popular. It was among the top grossing films of 1940, the top grossing of Chaplin’s filmography, and earned 5 Academy Award nominations including Best Picture.
… and Chaplin paid dearly for it.
After making more than 80 films in 25 years, he would go on to only make 4 more following The Great Dictator until his death in 1977. By then he’d been labeled a communist, expelled from the U.S., and his films were largely banned from the States for decades.
I wonder if Chaplin would have said it was all worth it. He knew the personal and professional risks going in, so I’d imagine he was willing to sacrifice everything out of a sense of responsibility. But what exactly did it accomplish? The war and Holocaust consumed countless lives, hate raged unabated, and the conflict’s end only ushered in a new era of fear and paranoia in the shadow of nuclear annihilation. The greatest gamble of his life and all he managed was make friendly audiences laugh for a couple hours at Hitler’s expense.
Despite an oft-misattributed, misunderstood quote, it takes more than good men speaking up to stop evil men from triumphing.
But speaking up is a good start.
And it opens the door for more good men to act.
Consider the impact of arguably the world’s first superstar in his prime using his fame and platform - his first “talkie” no less - on a satirical takedown of a politician. Specifically, at the time production started, a polarizing, but in certain circles quite poplar foreign leader, considered brash and aggressive, but lauded for producing an “economic miracle” and returning pride and strength to Germany - Time’s 1938 Man of the Year* - and of whom Chaplin happened to be an uncanny doppelgänger.
And Chaplin does not hold back, playing a dual role of both Hitler stand-in Adenoid Hynkel and an amnesiac WWI hero / Jewish barber Everyman. The “amnesiac” part is only important so Chaplin can drop a regular dude into the middle of the Nuremberg Laws without any prep or context, and have the very natural and human response of not terror or outrage, but simply “wait, WTF? That’s weird.”
That leads to a patented Chaplin slapstick bit in which the SS become the Keystone Cops, and while certainly cathartic, with hindsight it has this ominous sense of naivety. Chaplin later said had he known the depths of the horrors in Nazi Germany, he would not have made this film; a point driven home most prominently when the barber is sent to a concentration camp, and it’s presented as an inconvenient bummer from which he rather quickly escapes. The film works as an unintended time capsule of what was known, and what was unknown, on the precipice of war.
Still the barber’s story is an essential component to ground the narrative in the human impact of draconian policy and politics. But Chaplin’s dissection of Hitler, particularly how he used language and symbols, is fascinating. Hynkel’s speech near the beginning is a mix of harsh sounding gibberish and random German words.
“Auc der strapzint ein berzect der wienerschnitzel und a lager vintin sauerkraut!”
Hynkel, the “Phooey” of Tomania, screams to a cheering crowd. The parody is rather juvenile and the content is inane; How could this be quality satire? Quite actually, it’s a brilliant demonstration that Hitler’s words were ultimately empty, meaningless placeholders for the most primal guttural imagery. The words didn’t matter. It was entirely inflection and pantomime to evoke raw emotions. People weren’t listening to a political speech; they were watching a vaudeville. Who better to recognize that fact and bring it to light on the big screen than the greatest silent film star in history?
It also sets up the perfect juxtaposition when the twin stories of Hynkel and the barber at last dovetail, and the Jew, through convoluted happenstance, stands before Tomania’s invading armies in the dictator’s place. But this is not really the Everyman character from the film; this is Charlie Chaplin as himself taking Hitler’s place at the podium to deliver his own speech to the world.
Other than Hynkel dancing with an inflatable globe, this is the most famous scene of the film and likely why Chaplin chose to make it at all. The contrast is obvious: Chaplin is not performing here. He’s pleading directly with the audience and the world to listen to the better angels of our nature for unity, liberty, and progress. To shun the powerful, bitter, and hateful men who turn us on each other for their own greed and ambitions. And for us to aspire to build a world based on brotherhood and the prosperity and happiness of our fellow man.
OK, whatever LostGener
And guess what, this movie was super popular. It was among the top grossing films of 1940, the top grossing of Chaplin’s filmography, and earned 5 Academy Award nominations including Best Picture.
… and Chaplin paid dearly for it.
After making more than 80 films in 25 years, he would go on to only make 4 more following The Great Dictator until his death in 1977. By then he’d been labeled a communist, expelled from the U.S., and his films were largely banned from the States for decades.
I wonder if Chaplin would have said it was all worth it. He knew the personal and professional risks going in, so I’d imagine he was willing to sacrifice everything out of a sense of responsibility. But what exactly did it accomplish? The war and Holocaust consumed countless lives, hate raged unabated, and the conflict’s end only ushered in a new era of fear and paranoia in the shadow of nuclear annihilation. The greatest gamble of his life and all he managed was make friendly audiences laugh for a couple hours at Hitler’s expense.
Despite an oft-misattributed, misunderstood quote, it takes more than good men speaking up to stop evil men from triumphing.
But speaking up is a good start.
And it opens the door for more good men to act.
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