Renfield’s name tag. Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) listens attentively. Dracula (Nicholas Cage) gets ready to unleash his bite. Renfield heads to Dracula’s castle. Dracula (Nicholas Cage) hypnotizes. Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) is a familiar which is defined on the screen. Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) stands between the light and Dracula. Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) plans while sitting in the mouth of a monster. The opening sequence sees the film at it’s most kinetic. We proceed from our titular character’s name tag and see him captivated by a speech given by a woman who describes her boss as a monster. This is a self-help group, one whose depressing content is reflected by the hazy, disgusting green lighting which gives the film an iconic, campy texture. Renfield addresses us in a 4th wall-breaking manner and we’re privy to an intense action scene followed by edits of the 1931 Dracula which quickly recount the previous film and establish this film as a sequel. We learn that Renfield is stuck in a toxic cycle that sees him in the world’s worst employer-employee relationship possible.
The film opens on a name tag: Renfield.
The camera slowly pans up from this moniker to its recipient who looks up to a speaker talking about a “monster” whom she can’t seem to get away from. We’re made aware that this is a self-help group of sorts and the crowd of persons there listen fully invested in this monstrous metaphorical dressing of a toxic employer.
The lighting is a sickly, neon green, accentuating the toxicity of the discourse in the environment and highlighting Renfield’s pale, emaciated visage.
This young man then proceeds to address the audience in a fourth-wall breaking speech, explaining to the viewer that he, like the rest of the group, persons who he describes as “decent folks”, is in a “destructive relationship.”
We quickly flash to a supernatural action set-piece, an environment which is lit more “normally” than the self-help group, and a man runs off walls while being assailed and then stares at the screen with his fangs flashing. But before we can feel the bite of the moment, the frame pauses on this monstrous visage and lets the terror sink its teeth.
Renfield quickly shifts gears in order to provide context for the visceral flashback and the film cuts once again, moving to grainy black-and-white footage inspired/edited from Browning and Freund’s iconic 1931 film, Dracula. The pieces come together: we’re watching a sequel and the character addressing is us none other than the iconic Renfield of old, the salesman-turned-assistant to the legendary Dracula.
We see our hero’s doomed journey to the vampiric overlord’s grand manor and are treated to scenes, digitally altered to change the actors of both Dracula and Renfield to the modern actors playing them in this film. This quick summation of the older film is narrated in quirky fashion by our protagonist who takes the words of the weary woman which we previously heard and applies them directly to his own situation thereby literalizing the monstrous metaphor.
He described the process by which he was turned into a “familiar” that includes a quick textual definition which pops onto the screen to explain the terms of his “employment” and dresses up the evil machinations of his master with a modern parlance that belies the situation and injects a wry comedy to the moment.
With the set-up complete, we cut back to the first flash-back and witness as Dracula is manipulated and nearly beaten in battle. But just as he’s about to taste defeat, he looks at Renfield and implores his most loyal employee to help. Renfield is caught in Dracula’s gaze and his silky words, a commentary on the codependence and abusive nature of their relationship. Then, we’re able to witness an absolute bloodbath filled with comic amounts of gore and effects which accentuate the campy nature that the film is aiming at.
Dracula wins the battle but suffers debilitating injuries due to being exposed to the sun and Renfield explains that this is just a cycle repeating. As he explains: “At the peak of his powers, Dracula goes on a full-tilt blood-sucking bender, the good guys show up and do their thing, and then it’s up to me to clean up the mess.”
During this explanation, the two are framed by a circular door, a subtle affirmation of this cyclical explanation, where Renfield stands in the middle, straddling the line between Dracula, the prince of Darkness, and the light emanating from the window, beams which would have killed the evil if not for Renfield’s intervention. The stakes are established: Renfield is not one of the “good guys” but thinks of himself as a “decent” person who is struggling now to make the correct decision.
We cut back to the present day where we learn that as part of his duties, Renfield is tasked with moving Dracula, finding a new locale to store his batty boss, and then help him gain power while waiting for it the inevitable moment where the endeavor goes sour and the entire process has to be started once more. It’s no coincidence that that our unwilling employee is framed in a restaurant with a horrific, monstrous head behind him, consuming him just as he’s consumed by his master’s orders which are oriented around the act of consumption.
Yet, when asked to explain this story to the diegetic audience of the self-help group, Renfield shies away and claims that the group would never be able to understand the specific nature of his trauma; after all, there’s a difference between a cranky boss and a literal demon who yearns for the blood of innocents.
However, in spite of his reluctance to explicitly share within the catharsis offered by the setting, Renfield doesn’t leave the meetings empty handed; he doesn’t give his stories, but he takes his fellow cohorts’ tales of victimhood as signals by which to select targets for Dracula; the morality of the situation gels with him easier knowing that he’s taking out minor “monsters”, the only fitting dish for the heinous gourmand giving him these murderous orders.
Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) punches a head. Teddy is scared of the carnage. Rebecca (Awkwafina) arrests Teddy (Ben Schwartz) Renfield’s mission has him crossing paths with the righteous Rebecca. Thus, the vampire story crosses path the crime genre and the framework of the narrative is established.
Immediately, we see the employee of the century spring into action.
He ingests insects which give him his supernatural powers and proceeds to hunt down a target. In the first of many action set-pieces, we’re able to witness campy and kinetic action induced by the absurd neon lighting flourishes, kinetic yet quirky camera movements, and gratuitous injuries with blood abound. It’s a whole host of fun which is then accentuated by the introduction of the film’s B-Plot, a crime family who has dealings with the same cretins that Renfield finds himself dispatching, and suddenly, our vampire acolyte finds himself facing off with a masked, lumbering foe in raucous aplomb.
The violence of the encounter is felt by the son of the crime family in charge, Teddy Lobo (Ben Schwartz), who swiftly departs the scene of the butchering and ends up being accosted and then arrested by a traffic cop, Rebecca (Awkwafina), desperately searching for a way to apply her skills in a more meaningful manner in her efforts to clean the streets of crime. Thus, the supernatural vampire story becomes inextricably tied to a light, crime narrative.
Renfield takes the bodies to the new abode. Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) sets up the bodies for Dracula (Nicholas Cage). Renfield (Nicholas Hoult) bows while Dracula (Nicholas Cage) sits on his blood throne. Dracula (Nicholas Cage) asserts his dominance in close-up. Renfield drags the bodies to his master’s abode depicted a wide-shot that emphasizes the grandiose nature of the latter. He drags the bodies through a miserably foggy green environment that exacerbates the disgusting feeling. We see Dracula’s bloody red throne which creates a contrast with the green lights which make the milieu pop. The moment ends with Dracula asserting dominance in close-up, his prosthetics in full glory. He forces his liege to re-affirm his commitment to the cause.
It’s with this dichotomy in place, that the film ventures to more ambitious grounds.
We see Renfield drag the corpses from his battle to a decrepit building high in stature, a call-back to the castle shown in the opening flash-back, and he proceeds towards his master’s lair which is lighted by neon greens and reds which accentuate the sickness of the milieu.
It’s here where Dracula, dressed in a disgusting half-formed prosthetic showcasing his lack of power and injured state, dresses Renfield down for not bringing good enough victims, innocents whose blood would truly fuel the dark lord, and proceeds to abuse his liege until the would-be hero re-affirms his role in life and pathetically pledges his allegiance once more.
Teddy goes to his family’s manor. Teddy goes to his mother’s torture lair. Bellafrancesca (Shohreh Aghdashloo) lays down the law for Teddy (Ben Schwartz). Bellafrancesca (Shohreh Aghdashloo) asserts her dominance in close-up. This movement is repeated with the Lobos. Teddy goes to his family’s manor which is depicted in a wide-shot that emphasizes the grandiose nature of his family’s status. He proceeds to his mother’s torture lair which is colored in exaggerated blues and reds, a counterpoint to Dracula’s room’s red and green. The moment ends with Bellafrancesca asserting dominance in close-up. She forces her son to re-affirm his commitment to the cause. Thus, Dracula’s empire serves as an analog to the Lobos and the dark lord becomes transfigured into a godfather.
Meanwhile, the exact same scenario plays out with Teddy. He is freed from the police building, enters his family’s large mansion which is grand and opulent, and then goes to meet his mother, Bellafrancesca (Shohreh Aghdashloo), the leader of the group, who is busy torturing unseen victims behind a screen which leaves only their silhouettes for us to witness. This space is also dressed in distinctive neon lights, red and blue, and she similarly takes her liege, her son qua employee, to task for his failures in maintaining the family name and the fearful deterrence that it ought to evoke in its foes.
He too is forced to re-affirm his dedication to the family’s cause and is told to right the situation which he’s so badly botched, an order which forces him to confront Renfield, the man who got in his way and stopped his goon from carrying out the previous evening’s mission.
Thus, the two genre perspectives are formally married as complimentary sections, and Dracula is rendered as an analog to a Godfather figure, a crime lord in his own right (though his proclivities and activities make the Lobos pale in comparison). This posturing is intriguing and gives the film and its respective narrative an interesting position by which to couch itself within the horror genre as less a rote vampire story and more an examination of the commonplace structure that governs vampire mythos.
Unfortunately, where the film stumbles the most is precisely in this area due to its inability in highlighting the most interesting aspects afforded through this juxtaposition.
Instead of honing in on the idea of Dracula as a crime-lord looking to build his analog to a mafia-like empire and Renfield as the “rat” who threatens to bring it all down, focus is given more so to Renfield’s journey and entanglement with Rebecca, a morally upstanding officer who motivates him in his journey for redemption and who is unfortunately the least interesting and compelling character within the narrative proper.
Her goody-goody schtick gets boring quickly especially once she’s played her role in motivating Renfield to better herself, rendering her mostly superfluous to the narrative. With nothing else to do with her character and no interesting developments in their relationship, the sections between these two characters quickly devolve into quips and ham-fisted attempts at a light romance that undermine the tension, momentum, and obscene fun of the moments involving Dracula and his attempts at becoming a legitimate name in the vein of the Lobos.
It’s a bloody shame because Cage’s Dracula is absolutely a gonzo villain, a madman dripping in menace and condescension. He’s campy and mean-spirited in the best way and elevates the film whenever he appears. The way he rides Renfield and simultaneously reinforces and exposes the toxic, interdependent nature of their relationship, an extension of the help-group’s commentary on bad bosses, is the heart of the film; yet these moments, far and few between, are rarely given their moments to shine in the sun.
This uneven feeling is due to the film’s inability to translate its formal and stylistic tools evenly throughout the film. At a larger level, the care demonstrated in the stylizations of the Dracula vs non-Dracula sections is lop-sided. The intensely neon lit set-pieces, the energetic camera work, the 4th-wall breaking meta-commentary, and the endearing splatter effects all but disappear whenever the vampire mafioso is not present leading to a feeling of relative apathy when we’re stuck dealing with entire chunks of the film which are played closer to the stylings of an inert rom-com, one that is replete with moments of random humor (a diatribe regarding ska music is groan inducing in particular) that have no bearing, clever or otherwise, in regards to anything else going on in the screen; the passion or energy that would help these sections compete with the Dracula moments is simply missing.
Yet, even the Dracula sections feel like they could pack more punch as they lack the kinetic momentum and rapid-fire stylistic flourishes of the opening which neatly utilizes textual interludes and edited flash-backs of the older Dracula film to position the film as a sequel and examination of the lore underpinning it. Instead, the Dracula sections, fun as they are, rely entirely on Cage and Hoult playing out their abusive coupling and carnage candy, a formula which is entertaining but doesn’t have nearly the bite that was initially promised.
Consequently, the scattered pieces of the film never coagulate into something that quite rises to the amount of blood being spilled. The entanglement of the sub-genres comes off as clunky instead of nuanced and at times it almost feels like one is watching two different films which were forcefully smashed together instead of one compelling piece using its different aspects in an intertextual manner which the initial formal structure of the piece would otherwise suggest.
Thus, while the greatest bits of the film feel in line with the best of director Chris McKay’s work in The Lego BatmanMovie, the lesser sections are at best mildly entertaining and at worst act as bogs that we’re forced to wade through. And though the plot beats eventually congeal into a memorably carnivalesque finale loaded with absurd moments and wonderful comedic beats, it’s hard to shake off the bad blood of the lesser sections holding the film back from rising to its potential.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Renfield attempts to marry the crime and vampire genres but is unable to fully tap into its mixture to examine the idea of Dracula as a godfather-type figure. Yet, the film does endear itself to the audience during its kinetic, carnage-candy moments and the interactions between Dracula and Renfield provide enough bite for audiences who can wade through the less inspired, rom-com sections that the film is unfortunately bogged down by.
Rating
7.9/10
Grade
B
Go to Page 2 for the for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3to view this review’s progress report .
Closeup of Bee and Sophie making out. The focus is on the erotic element. Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) and Bee (Maria Bakalova) passionately kiss. Sophie (Amanda Stenberg) declares her love. Bee (Maria Bakalova) smiles back. We start on a shot of pure passion, lust and love in the center of the frame, which then pulls back to reveal the subjects of these affectations. This couple, Bee and Sophie, is in the throes of amorous passion and are operating on purely basic, animalist drives as they seek to satisfy one another, feeling up each other’s bodies. This is Eden and these Eves are enjoying their time in paradise. Sophie declares her love for Bee while the latter smiles back, pausing in the moment.
The soundscape is littered with the sounds of birds and bees, animalistic noises and the symbols of sexual euphemism come to life, as the camera focuses on a fitting image of a loving, lustful engagement – a gratuitous make-out session – whose noises enter into the cacophony. The frame’s first focus is the encounter, the experience and not the experiencers – an intentional choice that affirms a “living in the moment.”
Then, the camera pulls back to reveal the subjects of this amorous encounter, Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) and Bee (Maria Bakalova), who are caught in the throes of passion, their desire for their respective partner’s body overwhelming any other drive – humans rendered as their basest selves.
From this vantage point, the greenery surrounding the couple in the backdrop shot out-of-focus to render it into a hue of colors, an impressionistic embrace and framing by nature, calls back to the idyllic Eden, this time populated by two Eves.
This paradise continues for a while until Sophie declares her love to Bee, the latter of which smiles back without giving a verbal response.
The title card drops as the duo looks at their phones. Bee looks up Sophie’s friends. The couple drives through mountain ranges.An aerial view of the mansion. The girls find themselves whisked away from a world of instinctive, animal passions to one where technology reigns. Phones serve as a conduit for online personas, disseminating artificial images created by persons to impress others – inauthenticity. The camera reveals both the power of the phone through close-ups and the distance the couple is traveling before we finally see their destination location: a huge mansion. This is Eden no longer.
The enunciation is immediately interrupted by the harsh musical tunings of Slayyyter ‘s “Daddy AF” and we cut to the two characters, previously protected by the lush greens, now encased in a metallic husk, a car, with phones in their hands as opposed to on one another – technological transmutation, a counterpoint to the openings positioning of the human as pure animality freed from anthropocentric constraints.
With the shift to this “hi-tech” humanity, we see new concerns bleed into the environment, replacing the love from before with a sense of worry. Bee looks at her phone with concern, scrolling through it with a sense of dread. Sophie attempts to assuage her, claiming that her friends’ digital personas, profiles Bee is looking over are not as “nihilistic” as portrayed and are indicative of what said friends want others “to think” of them.
Thus, the phone is rendered as a barrier to unfettered love, a portal to false images by which persons can look at others in an artificial, distanced manner.
The camera cuts from the inside of the vehicle to wide shots of the vehicle traversing lush, green mountains before a nice aerial shot reveals a wide-spanning mansion, the location of the get-together that Sophie is taking Bee to, a party with the aforementioned friends that Bee feels the need to research before meeting in an attempt to not make a fool of herself. We’re a far ways from the idyllic Eden where love can find and cultivate itself without regards for the thoughts of outside observers.
Bee (Maria Bakalova) and Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) kiss in front of the greens. Bee (Maria Bakalova) opens up the rear-view mirror. Bee (Maria Bakalova) fixes up her appearance. Bee (Maria Bakalova) dissapears behind the mirror which obscures her. The arrival at the mansion signifies the end of Eden’s powers and protective domain. The couple attempts to kiss again but the same intensity and glow of the greens doesn’t operate the same anywhere. There’s a discrete space interrupting the continuity, one that becomes more explicit as Bee runs back to the car by herself to fix up her image. We’ve moved from nature to civilization, a realm where images born from the ego reign supreme. This is signified by Bee’s entrance into the house. She leaves the car, enters the background of the frame, and is obscured by the mirror in the foreground, the ultimate symbol of this new domain.
The couple gets out and heads to the luxurious abode but Bee hesitates and claims she has to retrieve something from the vehicle. Sophie rushes over, tells her not to dally for too long, and kisses her partner once again. But this attempt to channel the Edenic opening fails. There’s a space here made all the more poignant by the greens around them which are now fully in focus: discreteness generates distance.
Bee goes back to the car and immediately checks her face in the rear-view mirror, touching up her image to ensure that her ensuing meeting with the persons she’s spent time researching will come to joyous fruition. The reflective surface serves as an analog to the phone from earlier, an interface by which the ego can render itself into its most pleasing form.
Satisfied by her appearance, she finally gets out and begins to walk into the abode. The shot frames her in the background with the car’s dashboard and mirror in the foreground. We watch her move towards the house and cut right as she disappears behind the mirror she’s just spent time consulting with: she’s entered the mirror world, the realm of appearances.
David (Pete Davidson) and Emma (Chase Sui Wonders) float. Jordan (Myha’la Herrold) floats. Alice (Rachel Sennott) and Greg (Lee Pace) float. Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) interrupts the space and her wavy reflection disrupts the continuity. The pool becomes a man-made analog to the nature of Eden, humanity’s attempt to capture and compartmentalize nature in a manner which suits them. In this fashion, the pool becomes a type of womb, holding the members of the party in its seemingly protective grasp. This moment of peace is interrupted by Sophie, whose reflection disrupts the flow of the scene and reveals that this seemingly idyllic moment was nothing more than a competition between the members to see who could hold their breath the longest.
Meanwhile, the mansion’s inhabitants peacefully float around in a pool, a man-made approximation of nature, of Eden, that can’t recreate the same idyllic peace but serves as a temporary reprieve, a metaphorical womb of sorts. This moment is interrupted by the presence of Sophie; she appears at the edge of the pool, her image distorted and shifting, and disrupts the reflection of those below. Confrontation looms at the boundary of the water qua mirror, a counterpoint of sorts to Bee’s earlier moment by herself.
The crew comes up and engages with Sophie. Alice (Rachel Sennot) eagerly greets her friend while the rest of the group slowly acclimates to the presence, treating their supposed comrade more like an intrusion, questioning her presence at their get-together. As all the characters pop out, Greg (Lee Pace) pops out of the water and reveals that the paradisal picture was merely a competition ground; the group had been testing the limits of their breathing capacities and he’s won the competition. The game of compare and contrast has already started.
Bee (Maria Bakalova) is framed alone in the house. Bee (Maria Bakalova) meets the group. Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) introduces Bee (Maria Bakalova) to the group. The group and the couple are partitioned in the frame. We see the logic of the outsider continue to develop as Bee is framed alone in the house and outside of it. Her connection to this group, Sophie, is the only bridge to acceptance and she eagerly awaits the group’s response to her newfound presence within their social scene.
While this group converses, Bee enters the house, a moment which showcases the opulence of the manor in a wonderful tracking shot that starts on the ceiling and goes to Bee’s face as she gazes around entranced. A cut shows her framed by the doors of the house, a new entrant to the world of the bourgeoise who finds herself held in its purview. She enters the backyard pool environment and is initially cast alone, her outsider status re-affirmed.
Sophie quickly runs to her partner’s side, wraps her arms around her, and begins to introduce her to the rest of the crowd, stopping on Greg who is revealed to be Alice’s most recent beau, another new entrant to this social scene – seemingly obvious given his age gap compared to the rest of the group. The framing switches from Bee alone to Bee with Sophie to the couple now cast to one side of the frame against the already established group – two worlds primed to collide.
Greg’s immediate reaction to learning that thisis THE Sophie immediately informs us of an undercurrent pervading this social scene, one that has been building since her cohorts first became aware of her appearance. There’s a palpable tension building as we wait to learn what Sophie’s done. Just like Bee, we’re outsiders to this group’s dynamic and must learn how to swim in its ebb and flow.
Quickly, thinly veiled barbs start materializing into larger concerns. The group calls out Sophie for being unresponsive in the group chat. She hasn’t been part of the group’s festivities in some time and her presence is a genuine surprise to everyone else. What exactly does she want?
Alice (Rachel Sennott) gets alcohol. Greg (Lee Pace) uses a sword to cut off the blade. The group embraces the hurricane. David holds the sword and challenges the hurricane to do its worst. Property is rendered part and parcel of a game of gender, tools meant showcase one’s power. David is upset at being shown up by Greg, who uses an antique sword to great effect, gaining the admiration of the women at the house. David’s ego can’t stand such the perceived blow and he immediately grabs the sword and challenges nature itself.
Then, Alice goes to get champagne to celebrate the festivities. David (Pete Davidson), the party’s host, chastises her for taking his “dad’s shit”, revealing this abode and everything within as part of the generational wealth he’s been born into, but he ultimately doesn’t push the matter when she exclaims the presence of their seemingly unavailable friend warrants a toast. In perfect synergy with his partner, Greg then comes out into the fray with an antique sword and slices the bottle open in a wonderful show, a demonstration which upsets David even more than the retrieval of the bottle. He not only repeats his warning to not touch his father’s property but goes so far as to act and grab the weapon away from the only other male presence – class and gender become inextricably tied as masculinity becomes coded, albeit jokingly, as a threat.
The subtle interactions of the group reveal their individual relationships to one another and to wealth itself which help inform both us and Bee of the underlying dynamics at work, an interplay which has become more complex as an unseen member, Max (Conner O’Malley) is disclosed to be missing due to alluded antagonisms. Additionally, the group realizes that they too are unfamiliar with the new Sophie who surprises everyone with her announcement of sobriety. Suddenly, the reason for the toast itself, a gesture meant to include Sophie within the festivities with aplomb, is undermined and leaves the group searching for something new to celebrate.
In a sick joke, as if we needed any more proof of the group’s opulence, they choose to then dedicate their drinks to the impending hurricane; a devastating event for commoners becomes a time for celebration for those who are capable of sheltering away from such tragedy. But nature cares not for wealth, and the imposing presence of the hurricane makes good on its promise and forces the group to go inside even as David takes the time, with sword in hand, to challenge the natural phenomena before giving up and throwing the sword on the floor thereby confirming that his concerns over its damages at the hands of Greg were based in pride and antagonism: property is only valuable as an extension of one’s image – a succinct take on the purpose of class.
Bee and Sophie make-out once again. David (Pete Davidson) interrupts the moment. Bee (Maria Bakalova) is left alone. Bee (Maria Bakalova) explores the house and is amazed at its affluence. Jordan (Myha’la Herrold) and Bee (Maria Bakalova) are framed apart from one another as the former gives the latter a warning. The realm of capital, a world completely separated from Eden, allows no room for love to flourish as outsiders can interrupt at any moment. Sophie and Bee’s kiss is interrupted by the party’s host and the latter’s exploration of the house is interrupted by another member of the group who issues an ominous warning. This take on civilization is one that cuts to the chase: human society is one built on antagonism first.
Back in the house, our initial couple attempts to engage in another make-out session, this time framed against the backdrop of the mansion, which is quickly interrupted by the party’s host who takes Sophie aside to learn for the latter’s reason for coming to the event. Class dictates new conventions and the show of nature, initially cast as serene at the film’s start, becomes interrupted and commented on by observers. Privacy no longer exists.
This is confirmed when Bee slowly explores the house, entranced by the images of family and grandeur all around her. She’s clearly alienated by this environment but is unable to even take the entirety of the locale in before Jordan (Myha’la Herrold) intercedes, informs Bee of Sophie’s wealth which is comparatively greater to even David’s, and issues a warning to the newest newcomer: “Just be careful, okay? With Sophie. Just… Be Careful.” As she delivers this cautionary comment, the camera slowly pivots and uses the framing of the wall to divide these two parties into separate partitions – new groupings are being formed.
Suddenly, the mysteries of Sophie are turned against Bee as she’s now thrown into the currents of a group-dynamic which she knows nothing about and is forced to accept that she may not know her partner as well as she previously thought. The previous exchanges amongst the group code this interaction in multiple fashions and transform it into a labyrinth to be navigated with caution.
Is this this an analog to David and Greg’s previous confrontation at the pool, a female antagonism opposed to male, wherein Jordan takes on David’s role, Sophie takes on Greg’s role, and Bee, the seemingly poorest of the bunch, comes to be a stand-in for the “sword”, a symbol of power, in this case companionship, which must be controlled as an extension of one’s image?
Or is this an example of class solidarity, an extension of Jordan’s concern with not dropping the incredibly expensive alcohol, a thought which seemingly crossed none of the other party members’ minds, wherein she is looking out for Bee as someone who is also alienated by the displays of affluence? It would certainly make sense of her earlier, unprompted provocation about the stature of Sophie’s wealth.
We’re left to ponder the intent as Jordan happily hops down the hallway, out of sight, leaving only her eerie words behind.
David (Pete Davidson) obsesses zooms onto his face. Bee (Maria Bakalova) calls her mom. Bee looks at the girls was they record a Tik Tok video. The phone is transformed into the object par excellence, a conduit that allows communication between and through persons. It allows the dissemination of personas, curated images made to influence others’ opinions. It allows the creation of capital in the form of social media contributions which can get influence. It also allows communication to flourish between parties not closely to another. This nuance showcases the powers of phones but heavily suggests that they are more a curse than a boon, a tool which controls its wielder as opposed to the other way around.
As the interactions continue to proliferate, the film’s symbol par excellence, the cell-phone, continues to gain functions and becomes cemented as a pivotal tool in each character’s toolbox. It serves as mirror which can allow one to modify their appearance. It can allow for communication with parties not present within the immediate space, allowing for intimate connection. It can combine these functions and be used as a tool for social capital, capturing interactions meant for large-scale consumption vis-à-vis applications like Tik Tok. Director Halina Reijn imbues the object with nuance, an interface wherein all aspects of identity play around in relation to different socialized systems of power, but constantly demonstrates the way this nuance is discarded in favor of projects funded by the ego, affirmations of selfishness at the cost of everything else, a cost which will the film will explore with relish as its run-time continues.
Eventually, the group, including Bee, fall fully under the influence of their drugs and/or drinks of choice and are fully able to interact with one another, the substances operating as catalysts for interaction that previously was too shy to occur organically. It’s a ritual meant to summon the affects of Eden, nature at peace with itself, into a space that’s anything, the abode of capital and egotistical antagonisms that take priority over everything else.
Bee (Maria Bakalova) kisses Sophie. Jordan (Myha’la Herrold) stares at the couple. Greg (Lee Pace) dances with Bee) Alice (Rachel Sennott) pushes Bee (Maria Bakalova) out of the way. Jordan (Myha’la Herrold) dances with Bee (Maria Bakalova).Sophie (Amandla Stenberg) stares at her partner dancing without her. A party scene which should be the birthplace of community becomes a battleground as individuals feel themselves become partitioned from loving couplings that they see as extensions of their property and seek to redress these wrongs.
Each row in the gallery highlights the power of the gaze in these instances, as loving moments between persons are transformed into stages for antagonism by outside perspectives.
Azelia Bank’s iconic “212” starts to play as the group begins to dance with aplomb while losing themselves in its frenetic energy, but as evidenced by the opening’s musical break, we know this is set to fail. The frenetic hand-held montage can’t sustain the same passion evinced by the opening as the constant-cutting showcases the power of the gaze and its violent powers.
Intimate moments of potential connection are ripped apart as persons are repeatedly transformed into outsiders who project their own fears and concerns onto these new dalliances, transforming would-be encounters into battlegrounds where the excluded participants make themselves known and vie for total control of the situation.
Jordan stares with a fervor as Sophie and Bee dance, her warning looming in the distant background.
Alice immediately pushes Sophie aside when the latter dances with the only other outsider in the group, Greg – a move that immediately stops the establishment of solidarity.
Sophie is prodded by David to look at Bee and Jordan dancing and is clearly perturbed by this interaction. Her reaction marks the beginning of the end and she calls the affairs to a stand-still and proposes that the group play a game, the titular “Bodies Bodies Bodies.”
The rules of the game are explained as the group waits. Bee (Maria Bakalova) slaps David (Pete Davidson). David (Pete Davidson) punches Greg (Lee Pace) as the girls watch in horror. Bee (Maria Bakalova) explores the house with her phone’s light. The rules of the game are explained and its ritualistic role as a conduit for violence and debauchery are fully revealed. This is a game where personal grievances can be “fictionalized” and acted out on. When the lights go out and the game truly begins, Bee’s cell-phone, the ultimate tool of fictional identity, lights the way, ominously informing us what’s to come.
The game, a take on popular games like “Mafia” or “Werewolf”, designates one player as a killer and tasks the other players with figuring out their identity before the players are fully eliminated. The players must navigate the house in the dark with a light and the next session of the game can only start when someone finds a deceased member and calls out the game’s title: “Bodies Bodies Bodies.” Thus, the implicit arena of the dance-floor becomes explicit within a game that actively forces the players to ascertain one another’s true intentions and come to meaningful conclusions as violence looms around every corner.
However, this variant of the game starts off with a ritualized ceremony, a credo of sorts, that sees each player take a shot and then slap the player next to them. The symbolic violence and rush of the game is not enough for these people and they need to ramp up the stakes even more to feel something in their insulated, privileged lives.
The ritual goes along well until Bee, the female outsider, refuses to hit David as hard as she’s expected to, obviously taking the trappings of the game as a limiting factor to the violence, choosing to play within the realm of symbols instead of letting such desires sublimate into reality. But David takes her refusal as a window to showcase what should actually be done – the host enforcing the laws of the land – and viciously punches Greg, the male outsider, the party who already emasculated David unknowingly outside with the display of the sword, giving the audience a taste of what’s to come.
Alice quickly calms Greg down and the game begins. The lights are turned out and the players are told to hide amongst the house. Of course, Bee armed with her cell-phone, uses it to navigate the environment, an abode which already alienates her with its affluence, and determines her allegiances, choosing to try and form a companionship with Alice, who runs away from her, and avoid Jordan, who narrowly misses Bee as she hides.
Suddenly, the call is made. The group convenes. The lights turn on.
And as expected, the resulting conversation immediately devolves into personal slights, indictments based on knowledge that one would never know outside of the game, so called “meta-gaming” moments that reveal the antagonisms within the group that had been swirling up for so long up to this moment. We see the formation of in-groups and the way they determine outsiders and see the ruptures becoming to form, conflicts which break out into reality when the next round starts and a body is found again, this time genuinely dead and un-moving. Now, the game will truly begin as it becomes realized in the flesh.
As this violent investigation continues, conflicts which we had only seen parts of rear their ugly heads. Alliances are tested and at each critical juncture new information is revealed which makes ascertaining the assassin increasingly difficult. No one can be trusted and the character’s, stuck using their own knowledge of one another, information which has been coded by all parties to fit their own self-interests, find themselves trapped in a nightmarish environment where anything and everything threatens to take them out.
With the lights fully out due to the storm, this variant of the game, one enforced by the rules of nature proper, never has a moment of proper deliberation with every encounter taking place in absolute darkness, the state of ambiguity. The power saps the utility of the phones, turning them into pure symbols meant to light the way – a perfect tying of form to content.
The set-up lets Reijn ratchet up tension, shooting the majority of the rest of the film in a handheld manner that reinforces the horror tropes one would associate with such a milieu and leads into moments of genuine tension.
However, as the storm rages on, the tight, intricate brushstrokes the film paints itself with, namely the minute point and counter-points related to class and gender, wash away under the pressures of the narrative and become far less focused and poignant, drowning under the pressure.
Ideas on class and gender become far more overarching than they need be and the manner by which the film demonstrates the logic of alienation is cast aside.
The script’s wonderful Gen-Z slang, awash in the tropes and stylings of online vernacular, previously used to reinforce the shallow manners by which the characters’ code themselves as perpetual victims and as better than one another, eventually becomes superficial in end of itself, servicing the film with nothing more than punch-lines that elicit laughs but do very little in taking the aforementioned sub textual machinations to the next level, a move that would evaluate this horror-skinned murder mystery into the realm of a full-blooded classic.
While the broad splatters the film ultimately uses to finish populating its canvas tie together the plotlines in a formally competent and satisfying manner, neatly calling back to some of the larger overtures established at the film’s start, the ultimate reveal, the film’s punch-line so to speak, may alienate viewers looking for something grander underneath the veneer of it all. And while that particular message and related revelation may be the film’s biggest point, a perfect encapsulation of sorts of its characters and the manner by which it treats them, it’s a shame that it seemingly becomes the only fully developed statement delivered when so much groundwork had been laid down to present a more multi-faceted thesis.
Using the film’s pressing scenario as a metaphor, there’s a hurricane waiting to be unleashed on the viewer, but the film settles for a torrent of rain instead, foregoing the other elements that would augment such a phenomenon and generate a storm that would truly stand-out.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Much like the party and game at the heart of it’s story, the film is filled with an abundance of jokes, kinetic scenes, and moments of grandeur that ultimately delivers goods that should satisfy those looking for a fun horror-skinned murder mystery and satire on the parlance of identity politics, but the vacuous nature of this delivery may disappoint those looking for something a bit more profound.
Rating
8.8/10
Grade
B+
Go to Page 2 for the for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3to view this review’s progress report .
Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer Robert Downey Jr. as Rear Admiral Lewis Strauss Emily Blunt as Katherine “Kitty” Oppenheimer Florence Pugh as Jean Tatlock
Rain reverberates into circles. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) stares at this natural phenomenon. Flames expand. Plasma rolls. Flames plume out. Molecular momentum increases. Matters moves into itself. It continues to collect. Flames emerge: Prometheus stole fire from the Gods and gave it to man.For this he was chained to a rock and tortured for eternity. Oppenheimer’s (Cilian Murphy) eyes are closed. Oppenheimer’s (Cilian Murphy) eyes open. The opening sets the stage for one half of the film tying together the interplay of molecular forces with J. Robert Oppenheimer’s subjectivity. The unseen forces are rendered with the same awe and destructive powers as those of the nuclear weaponry he was responsible for engendering, and the film directly informs us of the cost of his choice, his burden, through the introductory text. He becomes Prometheus, a divine figure, who brings a holy fire, molecular forces, to the masses and is punished for the transgression. Science is couched against a backdrop of divinity as quantum theory is rendered into an exegetical force transcending the laws of physics into the realm of metaphysical inquisition. With the stage set, the great Doctor opens his eyes from his nightmarish visions and looks forward.
We see droplets rippling in a pond outward into circular reverberations and then get a glimpse at this phenomena’s perceiver, Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy), our protagonist, who relates this watery vision against one predicated on a countervailing elemental source, a world of fire, flames pluming out and flowing as a liquid, a state of plasma, an analogous movement to the echoing droplets.
From this point on, we’re treated to a variety of visuals which evade traditional classification as their scopes cannot be disambiguated. Visions of fire remain indeterminable as they take one of two roles depending on perspective: either they represent molecular entanglements of atoms blasting against one another or they are eruptions of flames on a scale familiar to us, eruptions that we would traditionally classify as such vis-à-vis our “naked” eyes.
As the montage of these visions continues, text eventually intervenes into the frame describing a divine story: “Prometheus stole fire from the Gods and gave it to man. For this he was chained to a rock and tortured for eternity.” A tale of divinity rendered contiguous with a visual plane depicting these flames from a scientific vantage point – this dichotomy is one that will seep into and develop through the film.
Accompanying this concisely phrased religious summation is an increasingly intense rumbling which enters the soundscape, source undetermined, which crowds out all other noises.
Fission is indexed to Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy), color, subjectivity, surrealism. Fusion is indexed to Strauss (Robert Downey Jr. ), black-and-white, “objectivity”, reality. Like he did in Dunkirk, Nolan sets up the formal framework for the film right at the start, utilizing supertitles – Fission and Fusion – to help bracket the strands the film will be delineated by. The former, fission, is attached to Oppenheimer and is shot in color. It features moments of clear subjectivity and surrealism – the realm of internal. The latter, fusion, is attached to Strauss and is shot in black-and-white. It features of moments of supposed “objectivity”, reality sans surrealism – the realm of the external. The film finds its rhythm through the intercutting of these two strands and the manners in which they reveal the way power derives from and interpellates both individuals and macro-level entities.
The sound continues until we cut to the visage of our phenomenological observer whose eyes are resolutely closed. Once he opens them up, the deafening, unidentifiable stamping noise immediately dissipates – a vision broken through as its dreamer wakes up. A supertitle, “Fission”, appears on the frame, setting the start of the formal patterns which will segment the film from this point on.
Oppenheimer begins to read a statement regarding his life to the audience and its filmic analog, persons which he regards as judges, while he explains that his decisions can only be evaluated against such a grand narrative. Meanwhile, the crowd evaluating the same refuses this classification as judges, clarifying that they instead serve as members of a security board – a semantic distinction operating as bureaucratic gesture.
Immediately, the film cuts to a close-up of another man, Strauss (Robert Downey Jr.), with the supertitle of “Fusion” appearing on the frame. This new filmic subject comments on the previous scene, explaining that Oppenheimer engaged in his aforementioned testimony for a month. He’s informed that he will be forced to explain his position towards the Oppenheimer security hearing, an issue which still divides America, in his confirmation hearing but is assured that this is not a trial – an inverted echo of the earlier statement from Fission wherein the audience clarified they were not judges, the prosecutors of a trial.
Thus, from the start the film the two formal strands by which it bifurcates itself, the colored world of “Fission” and the black-and-white world of “Fusion” are explicitly tied to the point-of-views of two distinctive men respectively, Oppenheimer and Strauss, who each find themselves at the heart of their own respective hearings which bear the markings of trials but are officially not classified as such while they’re forced to justify their lives. These two sections act as assemblages, gaining formal powers as the film continues to build a series of relationships and explicit patterns that define these partitions and grant them the power to frame the content they depict in radically distinctive fashions.[1] DeLanda, M. (n.d.). In Assemblage Theory. introduction. These two chronologies will come to stand-in for a variety of ideas, separate from one another, constantly inviting the viewer to ascertain the reasons for such distinctions.
“Fission”, as per its molecular namesake, is predicated on the manner in which parts collide with one another, splitting into one another to create products in a chain reaction.[2]Fission and fusion: What is the difference?. Energy.gov. (n.d.). https://www.energy.gov/ne/articles/fission-and-fusion-what-difference Consequently, the section is associated the realm of the “subjective”, taking the mental projections of its associated character, Oppenheimer, as the atoms to split in the process and demonstrating this chain reaction through a fragmented chronology featuring a host of surreal images and quantum interludes like those featured in the opening.
“Fusion”, likewise, is based another molecular process, occurring when two atoms slam together to create something greater. The process is shorter-lived but has a much greater power.[3] Fission and fusion: What is the difference?. Energy.gov. (n.d.). https://www.energy.gov/ne/articles/fission-and-fusion-what-difference This section, the shorter of the two, indexed towards Strauss as opposed to Oppenheimer, makes sense of the fragmented nature of “Fission” and puts it back together, weaving the interstices of the aforementioned hearing and the context surrounding it into a newly consolidated image, one based in “realism”, a move away from the realm of the “subjective” to the world of “objectivity”, the world of bureaucratic power.
These are opposite processes, one based on separation and the other on collision. Whereas “Fission” is shown in full color, letting the various hues of the spectrum bounce around the frames, “Fusion”, is shown in black-and-white, an intentional choice which ties it to the mode of classic cinema, a gesture towards tradition. The film will intercut between these two paradigmatic approaches in regards to the same subject matter, that of Oppenheimer’s life, from two different vantage points whose relation to one another develops and informs the audience of the truth behind “power” and the manner by which it relates to the subjects it governs.
Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) lies awake troubled by visions. Matter moves quickly. Matter vibrates against itself. Matter presents as waves. The molecular interludes become more varied and showcase a type of innocence, matter without the explosive violence promised by nuclear Armageddon, a nightmare on the periphery as opposed to a domineering force.
We cut back to Fission where Oppenheimer begins to recount his days as a student back in Europe, a time he explicitly recalls as less than satisfactory as the “visions of a hidden universe” troubled him. These visions, some of which we’ve already seen in the opening, come back into fray, adopting a wholly new color scheme more in line with the rain and its reverberating droplets, serving as molecular interludes. Like Terrence Malick did with his cosmic interludes in his opus, The Tree of Life, to frame his story about a family, more specifically a boy from that family now grown up, dealing with personal pain, against the backdrop of the creation of the universe, thus raising the particular to the level of the universal, director Christopher Nolan does here, using the molecular interludes as a cosmic stand-in, tying together the different strands of Oppenheimer’s life to the very forces underpinning them.
Thought itself is rendered corporeal as these moments are rendered with the same intensity as Oppenheimer’s actions in the world around him. They become an interface between the physical and the metaphysical through their surreal depiction which grants them the same visual status as the world that Oppenheimer finds himself navigating.
We see him do science in a lab, but he’s not nearly as skilled in working in this domain as he is with traversing the ones in his mind and accidentally breaks glassware. His professor, Blackett (James D’Arcy), chastises him for the mistake and orders Oppenheimer to stay in the lab to clean up while the rest of the students and staff go to attend a lecture on quantum theory by Niels Bohr (Kenneth Branagh), Oppenheimer’s personal idol.
The apple sits on a table. Oppenheimer reaches for a nefarious agent. Oppenheimer poisons the apple. Nourishment transforms into sin as the apple becomes a symbol of Edenic corruption. The apple, the starting point by which Mankind, per Christian tradition, began its journey into sin, tempts Oppenheimer down the same path. His frustrated emotions find a murderous outlet and the apple, previously positioned as a treat meant to nourish, becomes an instrument of death.
This perceived slight upsets the young scientist who takes matters into his own drastic hands. He sees an apple on a table – the Edenic symbol of man’s eventual corruption and Fall. He reaches for poison and injects the fruit with it, transforming it from a source of nourishment into an object of death, a perversion in purpose.
He runs through the rain to get to the lecture hall, coming in right as Bohr is speaking about the manner by which quantum theory offers a new way to understand “reality”, a way to peer through into a “world inside our world” made up of “energy and paradox.”
Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) continues to look up. Matter refracts like stars. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) closes his eyes. He sees the night stars. Molecular explosions become a tender flame. He lovingly feeds his horse an apple. He remembers the poisoned apple. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) stops Bohr (Kenneth Branagh) from biting into the poison. The molecular interludes become explicitly linked to the oneiric. Oppenheimer can only escape their powers by retreating into his memories, where these visions become replaced by their more comforting counterparts – molecules and explosions become the comforting night sky and a tender flame that keeps him warm. He remembers a moment of tender loving, feeding his horse an apple, and snaps back to reality, the realization of his malice having become apparent to him. The symbolic sin must be thwarted and his doing so propels him towards transformation.
This explanation brings Oppenheimer no peace as this newfound reality continues to assault his senses, haunting his waking visions. His only course of action is to go into the world of his dreams. His eyes close.
The molecular matter transforms into the night sky, stars taking the place of atoms. The fiery explosions become domesticated into the peaceful warmth of a fire. This is a precious memory, one that brings peace. Here, Oppenheimer tenderly feeds a horse an apple from his hand, granting sustenance to his furry friend.
But then he wakes and thinks back to the apple. The fruit of comfort from his dreams has become a nightmare enacted by his own hand in reality. He runs back to the classroom to get rid of this marker of sin and sees Bohr in the classroom. The two engage in dialogue. It’s revealed that Oppenheimer has seen Bohr in another lecture hall and had asked the latter the same question at two different occasions in an attempt to get another answer, a better answer.
Bohr issues a slight warning, another Edenic allusion: “You can lift the stone without being ready for the snake that’s revealed.” Lurking behind quantum theory is a world of probabilities which may not offer comfort and instead only point out visions of filled with sin. It’s no coincidence that Bohr says as much while holding the apple that Oppenheimer so desperately wants to throw away. Finally, Oppenheimer grabs at it and throws it away, claiming the fruit suffered from a “wormhole.” This excuse has a double meaning, referring to either a hole in the fruit dug through by a worm or the scientific structure professed through Einstein’s works which can connect distinctive points in space-time; religious symbolism and scientific inquiry are once again linked to one another.
With potential death now out of the way, the older scientist tells his scientific fan to go to Germany to learn the ways of theory, likening the science to sheet music. The question is not whether Oppenheimer can read this music but whether he can “hear it.”
The serene skies. Matter moves. An establishing shot of a wonderful city. Matter condenses. Equations are written out. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) peers at the Cathedral’s glas-work. Flame sparks ascend. Magma tendrils erupt. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) stares forward. Pablo Picasso’s “Woman Sitting With Crossed Arms.” Oppenheimer shatters glass against a corner of the room. Matter cascades. Glass is shattered. Matter rushes against itself. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) sees the particles within the “reality” of the room. The molecular and macro-level structures occupy the same space. This montage is one of the film’s absolute high points, proceeding at rapid speed to Ludwig Göransson’s hypnotic and propulsive “Can You Hear the Music?” which flattens distinctions between the series of seemingly discrete images and renders them within the same ontological plane. Serene skies, cities, stained-glass artwork in Cathedrals, shattered glass, flames, hosts of molecular renderings are treated the same, as distinctive parcels of that thing called “reality.” A key moment in this interplay occurs when Oppenheimer looks upon Picasso’s cubist work, a depiction of features of reality laid flat against one another – confirmation of the montage’s aims. It ends with the promise of its sequencing, as the molecular and that which its forces make up become superimposed in the frame via Oppenheimer’s gaze. These are manifestations of the “same” thing, a thing which can realize dreams just as well as it can generate nightmares.
It’s at this moment when composer Ludwig Göransson’s monumental score truly lifts off and sweeps Oppenheimer and by extension the audience off their feet, as the aptly titled track “Can You Hear the Music?” dominates the aural plane as Nolan and editor Jennifer Lame weave through a plethora of seemingly discrete images in a wonderful montage that lasts nearly 90-seconds.
We see majestic establishing shots of skylines and cities, Oppenheimer exploring the beauty of cathedrals while bathing in their luxurious glasswork, equations being written on boards, a host of molecular interludes now freed from their former domains as they appear in the frame with Oppenheimer himself, an effect of the wonderful practical effects being used which makes science surreal through seamless juxtaposition. A poignant moment in this mixture involves a set of tracking shots, pushing in on both Oppenheimer and Picasso’s “Woman Sitting With Crossed Arms”, a cubist representation of a woman which flattens her dimensions into one smooth visual representation.
This flattening effect is the point of the montage and the reason that music is framed as a method by which to engage in the sciences as Oppenheimer’s mind treats all these distinctive images of the world, of sciences, of art, of nature, of buildings, of equations as part and parcel of the same ontological fabric, operating on the same plane and waiting for someone to connect them together. Far from being discrete images, the procession invites the audience to join Oppenheimer in processing the way that these shapes and representations fire off from one another, atoms splitting from another in a chain reaction.
The committee questions Strauss. Strauss (Robert Downey Jr.) answers.Strauss and Oppenheimer enter the AEC facility. They see Einstein at a lake through a window. Strauss sees Oppenheimer talk to Einstein. Einstein (Tom Conti) ignores Strauss after this interaction. Strauss watches Oppenheimer leave. Strauss (Robert Downey Jr.) is clearly upset with the encounter. In contrast to the fission strand, the fusion strand is much simpler. It also involves a flashback and a related hearing, but the images and their editing are focused on a traditional continuity. We learn that Strauss invited Oppenheimer to join due to the latter’s credentials, but their meeting is far from easygoing as Strauss presents the encounter as personally debilitating. It feels like he’s being slighted at every corner and the flashback within the sequence ends with him staring, quite seriously, at Oppenheimer’s back – the seeds for conflict have very much been sewn.
And then the magic abruptly ends.
The color, creativity, catharsis crumble in the cracks of bureaucracy as the film cuts back to Fusion. Strauss is tasked with explaining his relationship with Oppenheimer, a task he was not expecting to deal with during this Senate Confirmation hearing, and flashes back to his own past and experience with the scientist we’ve spent the film’s run-time with up till now.
In this past, Oppenheimer is rendered arrogant and ignorant, casually demeaning Strauss with a variety of statements even though it’s unclear if he intended to do as much. Our newfound positioning with Strauss paints these comments as clear insults with no basis. From his view, he’s offering a job at one of the most prestigious institutions with a slew of benefits and is experiencing an unjustified pushback.
Their conversation comes to a pause when they spot Einstein (Tom Conti) at a pond near the facility. Strauss questions Oppenheimer’s decision to not involve the esteemed scientist in the Manhattan Project. The latter explains that the Father of Relativity wouldn’t embrace the quantum world his theories revealed which Strauss pins down to Einstein’s statement on the same: “God doesn’t play dice.” The statement, an indictment of the lack of definitive order necessitated by quantum theory, serves as an interesting counterpoint to Oppenheimer, a character who has been and will continue to be tied to the divine. Scientific paradigm is transformed into an act of faith. Which way will he leap?
Strauss offers to introduce the two but Oppenheimer brushes him off and goes to meet off with Einstein on his own terms, explaining that the duo has been acquainted for many years. But when Strauss attempts to approach the couple, Einstein brushes past him and walks off, ignoring the would-be introducer.
Power has been usurped and Strauss attempts to elicit a reason for such behavior from Oppenheimer, but the latter refuses to give up any information and instead turns the conversation to the contents of his security file, a point of concern for the scientist being asked to take a prestigious position at the Atomic Energy Commission. Strauss confirms that Oppenheimer’s act of patriotism vis-à-vis his work on the Manhattan Project is demonstrative proof of his loyalties and that any compromising information from said file should have no bearing on his status – a fact that we know is a lie given the way Fission starts in and is framed by a meeting to determine Oppenheimer’s security clearance. The film’s form and chronology thus introduce a question, how have we gotten from here to there and will lay the roadmap as it progresses.
We cut back to the present where Strauss’s inquisitors question the Cabinet Nominee on his knowledge of Oppenheimer’s past associations and why such knowledge didn’t concern him. He explains, in a seemingly joking manner, one which we learn is not the case at all and know based on the antagonist posturing of the duo in the flashback, that he was instead entirely consumed with what Oppenheimer “must have said to Einstein to sour him on” Strauss.
The crowd laughs at what they think is a humorous bit, but the mood is once again silenced by the governmental machine who persists in their questions. They ask Strauss if these concerns came up later. He responds: “Well, we all know what happened later.” It’s here that one recognizes the chronological circuitry the film is playing with, rendering time in one formal strand as a past that the other one can access; past, present, and future all become relative as they’re placed in proximity to one another and Strauss’s retort reveals this because the “later” he refers to is an event we’ve yet to see based on our vantage point from the “past” being showcased in Fission.
Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) gives a lecture in Dutch. He sees the quantum world reflected on the window spattered with raindrops. Rabi feeds Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy). Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) and Rabi (David Krumholtz) make plans to visit Heisenberg. Oppenheimer quickly demonstrates his aptitude, delivering a lecture in Dutch and impressing fellow countryman and ethnic compatriot Isidor Rabi, whose presence introduces identarian divisions into the fray: American , Jewish , Scientist. These partitions will become more relevant as the duo continues on their journey. Next stop, Heisenberg.
We cut back to Fission where Oppenheimer discusses his initial meeting with fellow countryman and scientist, Isidor Rabi (David Krumholtz), who is quickly impressed by our protagonist after witnessing him give a lecture on quantum theory entirely in Dutch. Oppenheimer departs the lecture location on train, seeing rain droplets and quantum visuals on the reflection on the window pane, before Rabi enters his compartment and formally introduces himself, drawing Oppenheimer’s attention away from the window pane, a plane where science and nature intertwine with one another, to the other side of the cart where human interaction waits.
The two men find themselves similar in many fashions – Jewish, American, Scientists. Their identity displaces science as the topic of conversation and the milieu’s anti-Semitism is brought up. Given the nature of the film, it’s no wonder that these partitions will become more relevant both within the larger context of the story and within these character’s lives, as these markers of their selves will be manipulated by systems of power. But for now, there are no immediate tensions and Rabi extends a helping hand, a gesture of kindness, by giving Oppenheimer nourishment in the form of fruit. A friendship is born.
The duo sets out to meet the premiere German quantum scientist Werner Heisenberg (Matthias Schweighöfer) who gives a lecture on quantum mechanics, a response of sorts to Einstein’s earlier quotation, where he explains that speculations of a “real” world bound by order, causality, lurking behind probabilities comprising the quantum world are fruitless to speculate on. Read through the framework of divinity hitherto set-up, this summation is an refutation of the Apollonian promise of God, a pure affirmation of the metaphysics of the dice roll where paradox rules.
After the lecture, Oppenheimer converses with Heisenberg and the two share their mutual admiration for one another’s works, both cut from similar scientific cloth, but Oppenheimer’s focus lays elsewhere: America. He wants to go back and spread the scientific gospel in his home nation, a fire to be lit for the masses waiting in the dark.
He comes back to the States, accepting positions at both Caltech and Berkeley, and starts his rise. Quickly making friends with the faculty, he rises to the task at hand and amasses a huge following.
Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) starts with one student. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) continues his lessons. Oppenheimer’s (Clian Murphy) class size massively expands. A star contracts due to the forces of gravity. Seamless editing disguises the flow of time as Oppenheimer’s classroom quickly grows from 1 to many students in a seeming instant. The subsequent discussion, reframes both the context of the discussion – Oppenheimer’s influence and discourse draws everyone in like a star’s force as gravity compresses it – and the previous molecular interludes – the flames become explicitly coded as stars collapsing into themselves.
The in-scene editing demonstrates the massive pull of his influence. We start on an empty classroom and one student, Lomanitz (Josh Zuckerman), walks in and attempts to leave upon ascertaining the situation. But Oppenheimer quickly starts to speak and begins to spout on about the paradoxes of quantum theory with such exuberance that the young Lomanitz ends up sitting in.
We see Oppenheimer write on the board, cut to Lomanitz’s enthused reaction, and then cut back to Oppenheimer who begins to leave the board. But as he walks away and goes throughout the room, we realize that we’ve cut to the future; the classroom is now filled with students eager to learn more.
Suddenly, a discussion of a star’s gravity breaks out. We see one of the earlier interludes which is now retroactively determined to be a star contracting due to the force of its gravitation pull being stronger than the force of its furnace pushing its fire out. Gravity condenses the star which triggers a seemingly infinite reaction wherein gravity and density cause the other to increase. Oppenheimer is positioned like this star, his brightness and exuberance pushing out colors and drawing in influence, but as his influence wanes, the gravity of the situation he finds himself in, the forces of bureaucracy, condense his situation into an ordeal that gets so much bigger than him.
We cut back to Fusion as if on cue, a reminder of these governmental forces at play and the manner in which they curb the projection of color, and Strauss explains that Dr. Oppenheimer’s file started while he was at Berkley because of his connection to left-wing political activities.
Politics on the board. Lawrence and Oppenheimer walk away. The FBI runs plates at a communist gathering. Oppenheimer (Cilian Murphy) meets Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh).Oppenheimer’s politics stretch across the domains he tries to partition his life into, bleeding into both his scientific life and his romantic endeavors
Another cut – this time to Fission – to a chalkboard filled with a political announcement as opposed to the normal equations which fill its space, politics in lieu of science. This development is chastised by Oppenheimer’s faculty peer and friend, Ernest Lawrence (Josh Hartnett), who issues a warning to keep politics out of the classroom, a fortuitous warning indeed given what we know will happen.
But Oppenheimer persists and pushes back, likening their revolution in physics to similar revolutionary movements in the humanities by thinkers such as: Picasso, Stravisnky, Freud, Marx. This explicit reference serves as a continuation of the ontological flattening demonstrated by the “Can You Hear the Music?” montage, wherein all revolution in thought is cast in the same light. But his line of thinking isn’t ubiquitous, and the conservative leanings of Lawrence come out when he retorts that America has already had its revolution, a paradoxical affirmation that approves of a previous revolution, an upending of values, but refuses to do the same again, a commitment to the status quo.
The duo departs and Oppenheimer heads to a Communist meeting with his brother, Frank (Dylan Arnold), and the latter’s partner, Jackie (Emma Dumont), where he has his first chronological encounter with the powers of politics that be: federal agents are taking pictures of the attendee’s license plates, obviously creating a registry of political thinkers that don’t align with status quo tendencies.
It’s at this meeting that Oppenheimer meets with future friends, acquaintances, and one of his life’s great loves, Jean Tatlock (Florence Pugh), who challenges his lack of commitment to the Communist cause. Though he’s sympathetic to their thoughts and ideologies, Oppenheimer is very much a pragmatist whose commitment is less to a single truth than it is to a variety of thoughts which all contain aspects of that. But what appears as “wiggle room” for him appears as lack of dedication to others, and his journey is one that will see him pulled apart by all relevant sides as they try and force him to commit to one system once and for all.
At first glance, the tapestry that is the film seems too massive a task to engage with. Within these first 20-minutes, we’ve been introduced to: a plethora of characters, each important in their own right; discussions related to the arts, sciences, politics, faith and juxtapositions of those ideas against one another; multiple time-lines that are further bracketed into the Fission and Fusion segments which eventually showcase the same actions from different vantage points; an overarching story which constantly breaks its chronology and introduces images and plot points shrouded in mystery, waiting to be retroactively determined and put together in sequence by the spectator as the film continues.
But Nolan consistently demonstrates how fully in control of the viewing experience he’s in. Conversations which may prove to be daunting are edited in kinetic fashion, making wonderful use of Göransson’s score, which plays almost for the film’s entire run-time, ensuring a consistent propulsive force that drives the narrative forward; we’re always aware of exactly what we have to pay attention to so we don’t lose the plot so to speak. When characters are referenced, the film wonderfully cuts to images of them to remind the audience of who they are, but these moments also work formally as we’re firmly latched into a point-of-view which would be thinking back to these faces while talking about them. The visual schema stays compelling in spite of the heavy dialogue laden scenes through the use of wonderful establishing shots, surreal images that break reality, and the lower shot-length in general which ensures there’s always something new on the screen to latch onto.
However, the script itself is arguably Nolan’s finest, featuring razor-sharp dialogue that flows and exudes charisma while neatly layering in sub-text within the text, thematic overtures which build to deafening crescendos as the viewer slowly pieces together the formal pieces of the puzzle together into a much larger, multi-faceted tapestry.
There are the surface level ideas involving moral culpability especially in relation to one’s politics. We know Oppenheimer will build the nuclear bomb, a weapon of mass destruction, a genocidal force, but he will do the same because his country demands it. This neatly leads into the larger discussion on politics proper, whether or not good citizens can have distinctive ideological ideas or if having them compromises them in their ability to fulfill their duties as patriots, whether or not being a patriot is justifiable in lieu of one’s obligations to humanity in general.
Then there are the deeper ideas involving science and religion, the way the latter and former are inextricably tied as explanatory mechanisms for the world and the manners in which they align and diverge from one another, the potential impossibility in reconciling beliefs from one domain with beliefs by the other and how the framing of these ideas within these particular discourses affects the way they’re treated by persons and society at large.
All of these throughlines and more are allowed to collide against one another and recapitulate into new discrete moments because of the formal partitioning of the film, Fission and Fusion, which transform the film into an apparatus of quantum theory itself. The memories of the respective characters serve as the atoms, distinctive vantage points of the same situations demonstrating the way that such a molecule can easily split. The editing serves as the catalyst that galvanizes these collisions and leads to the chain reactions, the explosive power that is transformed into epiphanies that only become clear when scrutinized and analyzed via the vantage points the film offers.
The point is not to push the audience towards a capital T “Truth” but instead to explore the way verisimilitude is generated through power and perspective. As Friedrich Nietzsche puts it: “There is only a seeing from a perspective, only a “knowing” from a perspective, and the more emotions we express over a thing, the more eyes, different eyes, we train on the same thing, the more complete will be our “idea” of that thing, our ‘objectivity.'” [4]Nietzsche , F. (1887). Third Essay. In O. Levy (Ed.), H. B. Samuel & J. M. Kennedy (Trans.), On the Genealogy of Morals. essay. Retrieved from … Continue reading Nolan wholeheartedly embraces this epistemic approach in Oppenheimer, approaching his titular character’s life from as many perspectives as possible in an attempt to understand the father of the nuclear bomb, the American Prometheus and give reason explaining why he did what he did.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Oppenheimer is Nolan’s multi-perspectival exploration of his titular character, broaching the subjectivity of this one person and the magnitude of their nuclear decision via a plethora of vantage points. Whether it be the drama, the analysis of war, the moral deliberations, spiritual exploration, or the formal examination of the way subjectivity is produced through the levers of power, there is something for anyone willing to grab onto one of these throughlines and see it through to the film’s end.
Rating
10/10
Grade
S+
Go to Page 2 for the for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3to view this review’s progress report .
The camera tracks through the forest. It goes through a lake, evoking classic horror imagery. It comes face to face with Teresa (Mirabai Pease) The agent of the shot is revealed to be a drone. The film opens with the “spectral” tracking/P.O.V shot made iconic in the first Evil Dead, suggesting the presence of a malevolent paranormal force. It’s not until its first apparent “victim” screams that the ruse is revealed for what it is. The ghost we thought we were perceiving is nothing more than a drone, expensive technology in lieu of the paranormal.
We open with the Evil Dead Franchise’s iconic shot, a spectral point-of-view (P.O.V.) tracking shot, which pushes and bends through the environment in search of an unsuspecting person who will be made the victim of this malignant force, referred to as a deadite, viewing them. The score becomes increasingly unnerving as the camera moves, signaling a terrifying presence. As the soundscape continues to become more disturbing, the camera finishes traversing through a forest and zooms over a lake, traditional horror iconography to be sure, before coming face-to-face with an unsuspecting woman, Teresa (Mirabai Pease), who immediately recoils upon contact.
Based on all the clues, we’re convinced that she’s been destroyed by this otherworldly, cosmic presence. However, a cut to a wide shot reveals that the P.O.V. we were following was not that of a deadite but that of a drone being flown by Teresa’s acquaintance, Caleb (Richard Crouchley), who takes great pleasure in the manner by which he elicited fear from his camera’s subject and captured it on frame. In this manner, the film’s opening subtly equates the supernatural gaze with that of the upper class looking for entertainment at the sake of someone else’s misery.
Teresa (Mirabai Pease) goes towards the distorted cabin. Teresa (Mirabai Pease) is reflected in the clock. The focus shifts from the clock to Teresa’s’ (Mirabai Pease) reflection. A split diopeter of Teresa (Mirabai Pease) and flies. Teresa (Mirabai Pease) enters the room and is framed against the clock once more. Teresa talks to Jessica, whose face is kept hidden from the audience. Teresa’s traversal is littered with a litany of seemingly small, yet effective directing choices that set the mood for the upcoming terror. The cabin she walks to, in addition to evoking the iconography of the franchise, looks wonderfully twisted. When she enters the abode, a looming clock takes center frame and a nice focus re-rack lets us know that Teresa’s time is up. A quick split diopeter of her and trapped insects cements this mood. As she begins to enter the room where Jessica lies, she’s once positioned with respect to the clock, this time next to it as opposed to within its structure. Most importantly, Jessica’s visage is kept hidden even as Teresa continues to talk to her, allowing the tension to ratchet up to the clock’s beating.
Upset at being made a fool of, Teresa walks away from the pier and goes towards a cabin for comfort. The distorted composition along with the context of the genre (and franchise) immediately informs us that this is where things will go wrong. Director Lee Cronin ensures of as much with a series of wonderful aesthetic choices.
When Teresa enters the cabin, we see her reflection in the glass of a clock, whose foreboding ticks slowly encroach and dominate the soundscape. The camera’s focus shifts and her reflection within the domain of the clock becomes a focal point. Her time will run out; this much is certain. The film cuts to a wonderful split-diopeter, one of many that punctuate the film, which emphasizes that this space is malevolent; Teresa is akin to a fly in a trap, waiting to die. As she enters the inner-most room, she is once again positioned in reference to the clock and its sounds fade out as the barrier to the room is opened; the moment is almost here.
She calls out to the room’s inhabitant, Caleb’s partner, Jessica (Anna-Maree Thomas), but Cronin deftly avoids revealing the latter’s visage; she remains covered in a shroud of mystery.
Text from Wuthering Heights. Jessica sits up. Teresa (Mirabai Pease) begs Jessica to stop. Jessica (Anna-Maree Thomas) vomits. The film wonderfully sustains tension by dragging out Jessica’s ultimate reveal. We go from close-up sections of Wuthering Heights which set the tone and infuse the mood with a gothic eeriness, hear Jessica speak while being unable to observe her mouth as she does so, exacerbating the horrific nature of what she’s doing, and are finally shown her visage as she begins to profusely vomit a putrid, white stream.
Jessica remains mostly unresponsive to Teresa’s banter, slightly chucking when the former makes a violent joke in response to Caleb. The lack of discourse prompts Teresa to read a book, Wuthering Heights, to pass the time. However, this solitary literature session is interrupted by the previously silent occupant, who sits up on her bed and begins to recite the text on the page – text which the camera cuts to in order to reinforce both the terror of the words being recited along with the action – without any prompts. The sound of the clock violently stops while Jessica’s voice becomes increasingly distorted, causing Teresa to beg for the phenomenon to stop. Time is up.
It’s at this point that Cronin lets us see Jessica’s face, but almost instantly, the demonic sounding girl falls to the floor and begins to vomit a grotesque, vile bile while shuddering violently. Teresa, unaware of what’s to come, tries to help but is caught off guard when Jessica reveals her helplessness was but a ruse; she proceeds to violently scalp her friend by pulling the former’s ponytail with great force.
Teresa’s POV as she stumbles towards the lake. Teresa (Mirabai Pease) informs Caleb (Richard Crouchley) of what’s happened. Jessica (Anna-Maree Thomas) goes towards the drone and drops Teresa’s scalp. Jessica (Anna-Maree Thomas) stares at the couple, and the audience, before engaging in drone violence. Teresa (Mirabai Pease) is shocked at Caleb’s dismembered head. Jessica (Anna-Maree Thomas) rises along with the title card. Once the terror begins it proceeds with haste. Cronin expands on the film’s form with a new P.O.V shot, this time from Teresa, before moving to a canted shot which showcases the possessed Jessica’s control of the situation. She is the dominant element in the foreground and then introduces a new space into the frame before then directly confronting the couple and by extension the viewer with a stare towards the camera. Violence ensues and she rises in spectacular fashion, harkening the start of the film proper as the title blooms up alongside her in the background.
We cut to a new P.O.V. shot that stumbles towards the lake and learn that this is Teresa, looking desperately for help. But before she can get Caleb to act, we cut to a canted shot of Jessica entering the frame. The possessed is now fully in control of the situation and the framing emphasizes as much; her body and the effects of her violence – the bloody scalp – dominate the frame. She moves towards the drone and then stares at the camera, gazing directly at her former friends and the audience proper. She smiles. The violence to come will be enjoyable for her, terrifying for her friends, and will be somewhere in the middle for the audience; after all, what else would a viewer going into an Evil Dead movie expect?
She bashes this representative of the faux-spectral P.O.V. shot and proceeds to decapitate her former boyfriend after he tries to save her from the same.
The water in the lake becomes a bloody red and Jessica flies up out of it; there will be no escape. The disturbing soundscape from the opening returns in full force. Then, in a brilliant move, the title card rises up behind her, emerging as furthest back element of the frame in full crimson glory. The film can now properly begin.
Canted shot of Beth (Lily Sullivan) realizing she’s pregnant. Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland) advises her kids. Danny (Morgan Davies) plays music. Bridget (Gabrielle Echols) holds up her “Eat the Rich” shirt. Kassie (Nell Fisher) cuts off her doll’s head. The principal cast is quickly introduced afterwards and given just enough characterization to drive the story forwards. Beth realizes she’s pregnant and this impending confrontation with motherhood is treated as horrific vis-a-vis the canted angle choice. Ellie is a tattoo artist who is also dealing with her role as a mother – an immediate counterpoint. Then we see her kids in their environments: Danny is an aspiring musician who grinds out on hi-tech sound system, Kassie is a unique girl who cuts her doll’s head off, and Bridget is a social activist who looks for her “Eat the Rich” shirt.
We cut to black, the sound drops, and we change settings entirely. Like the 2013 attempt at rebooting the franchise, the 2023 iteration draws the viewer in with a small helping of violence, a promise that what’s to come will satisfy their desires, before going to develop the primary cast. Here, our first member, Beth (Lily Sullivan), enters a bathroom and takes a pregnancy test. She sees her result and the frame becomes canted as the camera slowly pushes in on her face; the discovery of her newfound status as potential mother is treated as a horrifying event.
She drives to a dilapidated apartment building as the rains beat down on her. We cut to an apartment inside this structure and are introduced to our other primary characters: Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland), a mother who works as a tattoo artist; her older daughter, Bridget (Gabrielle Echols), whose interests lie in political activism; her son, Danny (Morgan Davies), who is having a blast with his state of the art music set-up; her younger daughter, Kassie (Nell Fisher), who seems to be doing her own thing, cutting off the head of a doll as if to remind the viewer of the film they’re watching.
Ellie hears her doorbell. Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland) sees no one there. Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland) checks the hallway. Beth (Lily Sullivan) is punched by Ellie. Beth’s attempt to scare Ellie sets the tone, albeit in a retroactively comedic fashion. She wants to scare her sister in an endearing move and is socked in the face for her efforts. The film takes this basic conceit – horror in relation to the family – and twists and warps it from this cuter interaction into something bloody and miserable.
As the chaos in the house enfolds, Ellie responds to a ring at the front door and goes to answer. She opens the door and sees no one. She checks a corner. No one. The camera slowly pushes in on her; for just a moment, we’re concerned that the evil from the opening has come here. But right as Ellie turns to go inside, Beth appears from the other side of the door, shots “Boo!”, and gets appropriately punched in the face by her sister. This inoffensive jump-scare, a trick played by one family member by another in an attempt at eliciting fear for entertainment, hearkens back to the opening sequence and sets the stage what’s to follow: the cute moment’s perversion into the grotesque and macabre.
Thus, the principal characters are established and we’re given just enough bits and pieces to ascertain the family dynamic. We learn that Beth has been distant from her sister and niblings in pursuit of her own career. However, in this time, her sister, Ellie, has had to deal with a separation from her own husband and the responsibility of maintaining a household on her own. To make it worse, Beth learns that her sister is set to lose her residence as the building is set to be demolished. This is a condemned environment.
Unfortunately, Ellie’s previous attempts to convey this information to Beth have fallen on deaf ears, as the latter has been so focused on her craft that she has ignored calls for help. The awkward revelation gives Ellie an excuse to send the kids out for food so that the adults can find a way to deal with the alienating tension between them.
Beth realizes her mistake and is upset with her lack of action. Ellie forgives her sister and subsequently attempts to probe the reason for this surprise visit. However, before Beth can reveal that she’s concerned about her potential tangle with motherhood, an earthquake erupts and disrupts the already shoddy environment further, preventing the conversation from going any further.
Danny (Morgan Davies) decides to explore the hole. Danny (Morgan Davies) goes through the vault. Danny (Morgan Davies) is scared by a statue of Christ jumping towards him. Crosses and religious ornaments decorate the space. Danny (Morgan Davies) continues to explore. Danny (Morgan Davies) finds the book. Insects fly off the book. The book of the dead. Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland) stares into the screen. Danny’s exploration of the bank makes good on Beth’s earlier light-hearted jump scare. This time it’s the figure of Christ himself who comes out and “warns” this intruder searching for riches to stay away. But Danny refuses to heed this warning and continues to explore in spite of the variety of clear warning signs; this is an Evil Dead movie after all. The damning excursion immediately cuts to Ellie staring at the camera, making explicit the horror to come and clueing us in on who will the be the first victim.
While the adults try and stabilize in the apartment, the children, who are located in the garage, duck for cover. However, the aftermath of the quake reveals the foundations of their apartment building, a bank, lurking underneath. A newly created gap offers a way to untold riches and Danny decides to explore in order to potentially find something of value.
Yet, his exploration, in true Evil Dead fashion, is filled with a litany of symbols and objects that would scream to any other person to “stay out!” In contrast to his aunt’s earlier playful jump-scare, a statue of Jesus Christ literally jumps out from a corner in an attempt to deter him from his ill-founded material pursuits. But Danny persists, ignoring the warning sign of the holy entity, and finds a set of vinyl records before uncovering a grotesque tome, the iconic “Book of the Dead”. This discovery marks the beginning of the end and the film consequently cuts to Ellie staring forward at the camera, letting us know that evil is imminent.
In customary fashion, evil, supernatural hymns are recited, cosmic horrors enter the fray, and our group of characters are forced to find a way to survive against an immensely powerful malevolent force that takes immense pleasure in enacting the sickest, most twisted forms of violence on its victims. From this view, the plotting of this latest entry in the iconic Evil Dead franchise goes mostly as one would expect.
P.O.V shot goes through a lake, evoking classic horror imagery. Spectral P.O.V shot up to the condemned apartment building. Tracking shot of Ellie (Alyssa Sutherland). Disembodied P.O.V shot. The film’s focus is on perspective and it attempts to explore the way one’s vantage point defines violence and explains its effects. There are traditional P.O.V. shots that feel right at home with the franchise’s best, alongside handheld tracking shots, and more subtle uses of P.O.V. shots. The film is constantly reframing things, informing the viewer to pay attention to who’s really in charge of different moments and how those changes in power are matriculated vis-a-vis violence. While some of the more interesting variations on this technique are not as developed as I would like, the effort is more than worthy of praise and study.
However, Cronin distinguishes his rendition of the Evil Dead from the rest of the franchise’s mainstays through his exploration and deconstruction of the spectral P.O.V. shot. If the opening wasn’t enough of a clue, an early conversation between Beth and Kassie draws textual attention to this point of focus, as the former party informs her niece that she doesn’t believe in ghosts because she can’t see them.
Thus, we are made aware that it is the gaze that is relevant and the film serves as an extended analysis of the way that its functions, both in regards to ourselves and within cinema, operate in relation to and through violence of different sorts. We are being asked: In what ways does our perspective of what is and is not violence change based on our perspective in relation to the phenomenon and its effects.
But Michael Haneke’s Funny Games this is not, and the analysis is mostly limited to simplistic thematic domains, namely to traditional thematic overtures regarding the family structure and manner by which it operates a kind of communal barrier. While the film’s set-up includes multiple angles by which to position said discussion and offer nuance into multiple domains, the limited deployment of its techniques ossifies the possibilities inherent within them. The thematic playground the film finds itself playing in is so much smaller than the space its elements give it access to and the way it dances with its cinematographic exploration, though deft, barely scratches the surface of the space it seeks to explore. In other words, the film’s area of focus is compelling and it judiciously utilizes both genre conventions and the franchise’s own history in pursuit of the same, but it limits its purview within artificial-feeling trappings that feel disappointing given the skill on display.
These commitment issues extend to the film’s tone which feels like it’s trying too hard to please all the myriad of fans, all of whom enjoy different aspects of the multi-faceted franchise. At times the film plays it straight and acts like a pot-boiler thriller with terrific pacing and frights abound. Every relevant plot element is neatly set-up à la Checkov’s gun and there’s very little fat as the film moves to its rhythm. The scares are neatly executed with subtle cues, few jump-scares, and mostly excellent sound design which helps accentuate the mean-spirited nature of the visceral horror set-pieces, playing on the ability of the genre to get viewers to imagine such violence’s happening to them. But right as the terror hits a fever pitch, the film will awkwardly toss aside the momentum for strange detours, like slapstick jokes found in Evil Dead II, which completely dissipate the tension and stop the pacing dead in its tracks.
Rises’ reliance on sticking to a formula also prevents it from gaining any new converts or impressing fans who are more so interested in the worldbuilding promised by the franchise. If you’ve seen any of the films before, you’re already going to know where and how the majority of the narrative will proceed which leaves only the spectacle remaining, and while that spectacle is stylized as all hell and is certainly visually evocative, it still does not approach that critical point at which the work feels transformative and wholly its own.
Instead of trying to be a terrifying thriller, a gory spectacle for splatter aficionados, a dark comedy for the horror-jaded, an examination of violence in relation to cinema for the theorists, and wholly honest to the plethora of expectations engendered by the franchise, the film should have given upon the juggling act and truly committed to the most congruent of these elements so that it could transcend itself in the way that certain parts of the film would suggest it would be able to do otherwise. Of course, it’s difficult to criticize a film when the criticism is aimed at its desires to please everyone, a task which it mostly does based on discussion surrounding it, but inevitably, upsetting some in favor of experimentation that pushes the needle forward is the only way to make a long-lasting mark and it’s disappointing when a film this fantastic doesn’t quite live up to that type of potential.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Evil Dead Rises is an ambitious, wonderfully stylized piece of work that deftly utilizes genre trappings and the conventions of the franchise to deliver a filmic experience that should please most of the fans it seeks to impress even if its attempt to do the same inevitably lowers its own artistic ceiling.
Rating
9.5/10
Grade
A+
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
An older woman (Catherine Scorsese) cooks while the Virgin Mary “watches”. An older woman (Catherine Scorsese) cooks. She kneads dough. The Virgin Mary watches. The Virgin Mary dissolves in the cooking. A flame dissolves on the woman. The woman (Catherine Scorsese) serves the food to kids. The woman (Catherine Scorsese) dissolves into the Virgin Mary. Rapid edits and dissolves tie the image of the mother together with Virgin Mary; women as a stand-in for divinity is established.
The film opens with an energetic drum-beat on an image of the Virgin Mary in the foreground and a mirror showcasing an older woman cooking in the background. These figures – the older woman and the Virgin Mary – will continue to be juxtaposed in aggressive fashion as the sequence continues. First, simple cuts jump between the two of them, but as the drum beat continues, the film utilizes dissolves to cement the duo into a unified entity. The holy aspects of Mary become imbued in the woman, and the scene ends with the latter feeding a large group of kids as Mary looks on – the connection between the image of the “mother” and the divine has been cemented.
Joey holds a weapon behind his back. J.R. (Harvey Keitel), Joey (Lennard Kuras), and the rest of the gang wait. The shot moves closer to J.R. (Harvey Keitel) and Joey (Lennard Kuras). The shot closes in onto J.R. (Harvey Keitel). Joey (Lennard Kuras) strikes. The camera tracks the fight. The camera tracks as one fight occurs in the background and one happens in the foreground. The title card. In opposition to the Edenic opening, the next scene embraces sin as a fight breaks out to rock-and-roll music. This is Scorsese’s arrival and it’s replete with what he’s best known for.
Immediately, this divine motherhood is contrasted with the next scene which starts with a weapon held behind a back – a symbol of violence. The drum-beat is replaced by the sounds of a radio. The editing pattern also shifts; this time the camera cuts three separate times, starting from a wide shot before eventually cutting to a single shot of a young man, J.R. (Harvey Keitel) standing in a group. Part of his entourage, Joey (Lennard Kuras), the person holding the weapon, waits for his opponent, a man from another group who stands across from him, to get ready.
The radio begins to play a rock song proper, “Jenny Take a Ride” by Mitch Ryder, as opposed to just an instrumental like the previous scene, and two fights among the groups begin to break out. The camera tracks on one of them and neatly captures the brawl in one smooth movement while the film cuts to the other scuffle happening in a proximate location before cutting back to the earlier tracking shot which now showcases the two fights in the same frame, one in the background and one in the foreground.
Among all this chaos, the title card drops and signifies the arrival of a brazen new cinematic voice (at the time), that of director Martin Scorsese. His opening neatly juxtaposes the ideas of the divine and the profane, a dichotomy that’s been ever-present in his work since. The seeds for the primary conflict have just been sown.
A woman cooks in a store. The camera zooms out from her. The camera moves and sees a duo walking. The camera zooms and reveals this duo is J.R. (Harvey Keitel) and Joey (Lennard Kuras).The distance between “good” and “bad” is rendered spatially as the camera zooms out from the image of the woman who cooks to the image of the fighters.
The film cuts to a shot of a market; a woman inside gets food ready – a direct callback to the “divine” connection generated in the first scene in the film between the image of the cooking woman and the Virgin Mary. The camera zooms out from this divine allusion and moves along the street before zooming in on J.R. and Joey, figures who have just been involved with violence. This duo enters a location called the “Pleasure Club”; thus, a distance between the Edenic and the sinful is reinforced spatially.
Joey (Lennard Kuras) beats Gaga (Michael Scala). Joey (Lennard Kuras) lectures Gaga (Michael Scala) with J.R. (Harvey Keitel). The Girl (Zina Bethune) smiles at J.R. J.R. (Harvey Keitel) can’t stop thinking about The Girl. J.R.’s life of sin is interrupted by an encounter with a girl; he can’t shake himself of this interaction.
Inside the establishment, Joey goes to a table where a card-game is being played and asks the see the respective players’ hands. Upon looking at the second player’s hand, he claims that said player has lost and proceeds to beat him. This player, Sally Gaga (Michael Scala), is this group’s “runt” and has borrowed so much money from Joey that playing cards is out of the question. As Joey aptly puts it: “You steal from your mother, not me.” When Sally attempts to apologize, Sally reminds him: “Your priest you tell you’re sorry to. Me, you don’t tell you’re sorry to!” The dichotomy established in the opening continues to sink its fangs as this group is established as a counter-point to the holy and “good”. They are not the holy priest or the divine mother.
The group departs and the trio of friends – J.R., Joey, and Sally – convene in a bar owned by Joey. Yet, J.R.s mind is unable to focus on the conversation at hand and he seems transfixed by something else. A cut to a girl (Zina Bethune) smiling at him, yet located at a different location, indicates exactly where his thought lies. Scorsese cross-cuts between these temporally and geographically separated moments to highlight J.R.’s transfixion.
The Girl (Zina Bethune) reads. A close-up of the Girl (Zina Bethune) reading. The film “double-cuts” on this girl to highlight J.R.’s subjective obsession; this technique will be repeated throughout the film and establishes the current of our protagonist’s thoughts.
He utilizes a “double-cut”, a shot of the girl’s face which then briefly cuts to a close-up of the same, to reinforce the subjective involvement on the part of J.R. Our protagonist is utterly mesmerized by this girl and the conversation from the bar can no longer even be heard. The silence which replaces the chatter of the bar suggests this encounter is a dream and the girl becomes something “more”, a transcendent figure.
J.R. (Harvey Keitel) steals a look at the Girl’s (Zina Bethune) paper. J.R. (Harvey Keitel) points out John Wayne to the Girl (Zina Bethune).The past comes to life again and we become privy to the initial meeting between J.R. and the girl who start their encounter with a discussion of cinema.
Then, the oneiric mood dissipates, and we along with J.R. find ourselves back in the past – the encounter between boy and girl plays out in its totality as the past usurps the present. The noise of a crowd creeps into the soundscape, informing of us of this shift, while the camera slowly pulls out of J.R.’s isolated face to reveal him sitting next to the girl. He keeps stealing glances at the paper she’s reading, but she notices as much and invites him to read along with her.
A shot of John Wayne in The Searchers. A close-up of John Wayne’s character. The “double-cut” on John Wayne signfies J.R’s ideological investment in the idea of the Western hero as an archetype to look up to.
He tries to play coy and bumbles his words but indicates he’s interested in the picture of John Wayne; another “double-cut” emphasizes his fixation on this mythical western figure. She responds that the magazine is a French magazine, and the two engage in a conversation about foreign cinema, Italian and French, and the respective print media associated with the same; the conversation is fitting, given the film’s obvious influences from both the Italian Neo-Realists and the French New Wave in its stylizations and narrative conventions (or lack thereof). The conversation discusses the need for an English analog to these foreign media, a suggestion (or rather, a revelation) that this film, Scorsese’s debut, is an attempt at bridging a connection (and paying homage) to foreign developments in cinema.
The camera pans from the Girl (Zina Bethune).The camera pans towards J.R. (Harvey Keitel). J.R. (Harvey Keitel) thinks of this conversation while in the bar. The camera tracks on a close-up of J.R.’s (Harvey Keitel) face.The camera tracks on a close-up of the Girl’s (Zina Bethune) face.An overhead shot of J.R. (Harvey Keitel) and the Girl (Zina Bethune) talking. The overhead shot dissolves into the Girl (Zina Bethune) smiling. Joey snaps J.R. out of the moment. Scorsese directs the hell out of the initial meeting between J.R. and the girl, utilizing a series of camera movements, shot choices, and distinctive forms of editing to highlight the magic of the moment. The girl and J.R. are smitten with each other and the only obstacle seems to be the order of sin that his friends represent; he will be forced to make a choice.
The conversation continues and becomes increasingly stylized. The camera neatly moves from each party, framed as singles, as the two discuss the image of Wayne in the context of the film it’s from: John Ford’s The Searchers – notably one of Scorsese’s favorite films and one that will continue to remain in the “text” of his films to follow. [1]Schickel, R., & Scorsese , M. (2011). The Ford Connection. In Conversations with Scorsese. essay, Alfred A. Knopf.J.R. ,like Scorsese, is absolutely enthralled by the film and tries to discuss it with the girl who can’t seem to recognize it. He talks about the dichotomy between the cowboy protagonist played by John Wayne and the Native American antagonist and they both seem to agree that the latter is the “bad” guy, even though their discussion seems to suggest that both characters share a similar negativity. Thus, the figure of the hero is elevated and given leeway for participating in problematic behavior that is used to condemn the antagonist. J.R. touches on this seemingly unfair value judgement for a brief moment before continuing on the conversation; this (mis)identification of goodness and its opposite is a key issue that his journey with this girl will force him to confront and is fittingly set-up via this discussion of cinema.
The girl eventually realizes she’s seen the film and comments that she’s not used to liking westerns before J.R. pushes her on the issue and claims that everyone’s problems would be solved if they “liked westerns.” He makes it clear that a clear hero to root for against an antagonist appeals to him. This clear-cut value structure grounds him.
She acquiesces to his declaration, and the conversation moves on to the nature of the ferry ride they’re both on. She admits that she’s going on it to experience it as a “ride”, a view which he can’t conceptualize; the ferry to him just represents a chore – a break with familiarity for him.
All the while, the film cuts to-and-fro between him at the bar with his friends to this conversation with the girl where his mind remains. Tracking shots of both his and the girl’s eyelines reveal the depth of their growing feelings for one another and a dramatic overhead shot accompanied with a dissolve of the girl laughing set the stage for a grand romance. There’s a clear connection here and J.R.’s obsession with it rings clear.
But the idyllic moment breaks; Joey slaps J.R. and interrupts the latter’s recollection in an attempt to get attention back to the conversation at the bar. J.R.’s friends want go out and meet a “new broad” but he shows no interest. Why would he when he’s so focused on this bright, cheery girl who’s completely enamored him? Who would leave “Eden” to sin? This is the Madonna-Whore (the film would utilize the terms “Girl”- “Broad” instead) complex in play, one that seems to fit J.R.’s view of the world, evidenced by the valorization of Wayne’s protagonist and the western genre as neatly separated into discrete notions of “right” and “wrong”. Thus, a clear opposition is established between the worlds the girl and his friends represent, and the film truly begins as J.R. is forced to choose between these two distinctive modes of existence.
By focusing on the subjective exploration of a character, J.R. in this case, and his decision to “sin” or not, Scorsese is able to eschew traditional narrative conventions and focus purely on the mood of the characters. The basic plot – boy falls in love with girl and has to figure out how to deal with his feelings despite lacking a “grammar” by which to do so – feels so much more epic because of the way Scorsese directs the ebb and flow of the emotional battle that underpins it. By cutting between interactions of J.R. and the stand-ins for the worlds he finds himself traversing, the film is able to remain compelling even as “little” happens in a narrative sense; momentum is generated purely through exploring the subjectivity inherent to the decision-making process.
J.R. (Harvey Keitel) is framed by the barstools. J.R. (Harvey Keitel) and the girl (Zina Bethune) are framed by a stool. Gaga (Michael Scala) framed by an upside down barstool. Early on, characters are repeatedly framed by stools, reinforcing points of contrast between the two worlds that J.R. straddled between.
This is why Scorsese consistently frames the characters against stools (especially in the film’s first half). He wants us to compare-and-contrast between the choices; the “world” the girl represents is open to persons and allows a genuine relationship to form, while the other is more insulated and is less open. The former’s communicative possibilities open up the chance of suffering as distance between people is closed while the latter operates as a façade that protects as it conceals the nature of what’s being done.
However, that doesn’t mean Scorsese only uses visuals to do the talking; in lieu of explicit dialogue, he uses songs as a formal mechanism to reflect and reinforce the distinctions between the worlds and the consequences of their intersection. From the opening, the music is established as a “cover” of sorts to the violent behavior that J.R. engages in, a reprieve that transforms his sinful actions into something enjoyable and permissible; this is an act of “insulation”. But as his relationship with the girl continues, music qua reprieve becomes problematized and the soundtrack reflects as much; the score continues to play rock tunes but their function radically changes as J.R.’s traversal reveals the costs associated with remaining in one world versus another.
For a film-maker as important and relevant as Martin Scorsese, it’s baffling that his debut feature-film, Who’s That Knocking at My Door, has been so eagerly dismissed (including by Scorsese himself) [2]Schickel, R., & Scorsese , M. (2011). Little Italy. In Conversations with Scorsese. essay, Alfred A. Knopf. when, as evidenced above, it so neatly portends the auteur’s interests and stylistic influences/tools. There’s the focus on a character’s subjectivity, meditation on sin versus divinity, a wonderous use of music to evoke mood – trademarks of the master’s oeuvre. While Scorsese isn’t as restrained or formally motivated in how he employs all his tools- freeze frames, slow-motion, distinctive camera movements, intense cross-cutting between scenes and jarring cuts within scenes at times are employed with abandon- as he would be later in his career, his ambition in “throwing the kitchen sink” at the screen in this debut certainly has an effect on the viewer especially in his utilization of the “double-edit” which succinctly achieves a subjective mood that weaves J.R.’s obsessions as a motif begging to be dissected.
So yes, while the film, as Scorsese suggests, serves as a “rough draft” of his first masterpiece, Mean Streets, it certainly warrants a broader appreciation in its own right [3]Ibid. given the way it forces us to focus on character as opposed to plot; the film is such a profound mood-piece, working on feeling over narrative heft in every major decision it makes, that it’s hard to take one’s eye off the screen. While the film sometimes lapses, namely in the amount of time it wastes in the sinful domain, that of J.R.’s friends whose intersections with our protagonist are far less interesting, varied, and developed as his scenes with the girl, there’s more than enough here to chew on and appreciate.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Martin Scorsese’s debut film neatly foreshadow many of the auteur’s obsessions and operates entirely as an exercise in mood and style; plot gives way to character exploration and we follow a man who’s forced to find a grammar to deal with a world that seems newly foreign and alienating to him. While there are moments where the film throws so much at the wall that it forgets what’s already sticking and undermines its own rhythm, when it works it genuinely enthralls and captivates, making you forget about the small bumps on the way. What a wonderous start to a filmography as legendary and storied as Scorsese’s.
Rating
9.3/10
Grade
A
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
Note: This review contains spoilers regarding the first 30 minutes of the film as opposed to the site’s usual benchmark of 10-20 minutes. The same effort towards sustaining the intrigue and momentum of the film is maintained in this review, and all plot details revealed are just meant to be a springboard to discuss the scope of the work in better detail. Nothing discussed should undermine the “best” portions of the film or the many mysteries that keep the story engaging.
Women photocopy documents while students chatter around them. One women slips down in pain. The other women clutches her ear. Title card. Violence leaves a marked impact, alienating the subjects in sperate parts of the frame and deafening the jovial sounds of communication in absolute silence.
Two women operate a photocopier as a sea of students bustle and jovially engage around them. Within a minute, this peace is interrupted by a set of gunshots. One of the women falls down in pain while the other clutches her ear; violence has created a division and the two women are now framed separately.
The camera tilts from the woman holding her ear to the one wounded on the floor before cutting again to the former. The cut reinforces the disruption that’s occurred – the space has become split. Accordingly, the sound also complete cuts out to a deafening silence as the subject of the shot, both literal and filmic, stumbles to find a grounding. The title card drops in, and a message appears indicating that the story to follow is based off survivor testimony from the Polytechnique shooting of 1989 but chronicles a series of fictional characters.
The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) places the gun to his head The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) and his roomate (Adam Kosh) don’t interact. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) is isolated. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette)The killer is absolutely isolated in his living space; even his roommate has on functional connection with him.
We cut back chronologically and open on the shooter pointing the barrel of his gun to his head; he’s in the throes of suicidal ideation but chooses to not go forward with his decision yet. Instead, he lingers in his dirty, unkept apartment, unable to maintain his gaze on anything in particular. He opens a fridge as if looking for food but his eyes are focused on nothing in particular – there’s something missing.
But his roommate pays no heed to this odd behavior and the two exchange an informal “goodbye” with one another before the camera slowly pushes in on the killer’s face in a close-up shot, reinforcing the isolation of its subject. Even while eating his breakfast, the killer simply goes through the motions and looks somewhere off to the distance.
The killer stares at the woman. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) is transfixed. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) stares at his target from another room. The woman leaves her apartment. It’s only the image of a woman living in an apartment across from him that gives the Killer any sense of focus. He’s obsessed with her.
But when he sees his neighbor’s apartment lights up from his window, he suddenly becomes very focused. He turns off the light in the dining room and stares across; a close-up highlights his focused, intent gaze. The score changes as a result and an ominous droning and somber piano begin to play.
His neighbor begins to move and the killer runs to another room in his place and continues to stare; his neighbor, a young woman, is his obsessive focus. She turns off the lights to her place and departs the location. The killer turns away from his window dejectedly and then begins to act.
The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) cleans his room. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) writes his manifesto. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) shaves and his reflection is split. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) burns photos of himself. The killer is unable to ground his identity in anything meaningful. His relationship to himself is fractured and alienated. Unable to cope with this trauma, he scapegoats women as the cause of his problems.
He starts to clean his dirty flat before writing a letter and delivering its contents to us via a voice-over monologue; this is his “declaration” and explanation for the shooting he is to commit, a shooting we have already borne witness to. From its outset, director Denis Villenevue explicitly challenges this justification by placing it after the shooting itself; the shock of the violence makes the killer’s abhorrent reasoning untenable from its inception.
Yet, the deconstruction of the motivation doesn’t stop there. The killer exalts himself as a person of reason who believes in science and explains that this position has led him to want to eliminate all “feminists”, a position he attributes to women by virtue of existence. He claims that they usurp all benefits of men without having to do any of the same labor and that he’s tired of it; yet, he also admits that he, a natural genius who gets great marks without trying, does not wish to do any meaningful study, labor, and be subject to a government. The points are non-sequitur and do not make sense when given more than a moment’s thought; instead, the rant reveals that he’s unable to comprehend himself outside of his hatred.
His alienation must be caused by some other agent(s): women. As the voice-over continues, he stares at a mirror and sees himself alone in the reflection; but if he refuses to understand himself, then his reflection offers no solace. This distance from identity is reinforced when he goes to burn any photographs of himself underneath the mirror in the sink. His sense of self exists only in opposition to the women he has decried as enemy and has nothing to furnish itself on.
Stéphanie smokes a cigarette. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) answers Stéphanie’s (Evelyne Brochu) question. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) is displeased with her outfit. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) and Stéphanie (Evelyne Brochu) have fun as the music plays. The women’s apartment is open and communication is open. The windows are open, the occupants talk, and real music plays. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) can ground her identity with the help of her friend. The mirror isn’t a place of alienation.
The film cuts to another apartment and the non-diegetic track finally stops playing. A young woman, Stéphanie (Evelyne Brochu), holds a cigarette outside the window. She brings it back in and takes a puff before calling out to her roomate, Valérie (Karine Vanasse), to ask a science question related to entropy. Valérie explains the answer and then gets for an interview.
She tries on a series of dresses while looking in the mirror and isn’t satisfied with how she looks. Thankfully, Stéphanie notices her struggling and helps out with getting a better outfit as a diegetic song plays; the two friends smile with each other as they look into the mirror while the music continues and livens up the moment.
Thus, the difference between the men and women’s apartments are formally rendered by Villenevue. One has closed windows while the other apartment’s is open. One has persons who are closed off to one another while the other has persons who eagerly assist and communicate with one another. One is silent and filled with a music that its subjects cannot hear while the other is filled with the sounds of a cheerful song that its subjects can enjoy. While the men are alienated and separate, the women are together and engage in community. This is why Valérie, as opposed to the killer, can find her identity vis-a-vis the mirror; she has a friend to help her out.
While the two young women make their way to university, the film cuts back to the killer who looks at people while driving; his car’s windows and side-view mirrors frame persons in unnatural manners and showcase the killer’s warped perspective. The non-diegetic track comes back into play as he writes and delivers an apology letter to his mother, a woman who he feels a need to explain things to – a sharp contradiction given his complete admonishment of all womenkind.
Landscape view of library bookshelves The camera arcs on the shelves. JF does homework. JF (Sébastien Huberdeau) greets a friend. JF is able to neutralize the violent presence of the killer; as the camera arc around him, the non-diegetic music gives way to communication.
As the music continues to play, the film cuts to a slanted view of a library, before slowly arcing as it tracks to a new subject, Jean-François (Sébastien Huberdeau). When the young man enters the frame in the up-right position, the non-diegetic track disappears. A passerby calls out to Jean-Francois (JF) and greets him before departing – JF, unlike the killer, is not isolated and has connections.
Valérie (Karine Vanasse) goes to her interview. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) feels isolated by the misogyny of the interviewer. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) is caught in a sea of her reflections. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) affirms herself once again. Far from being given free access to whatever she desires like the killer suggests, Valérie (Karine Vanasse) finds herself forced to acquiesce to sexist demands in order to prove herself worthy of a job she should get based on merit. Alienated by the implicit misogyny of the situation, she is forced to affirm herself and look inward for strength.
Meanwhile, Valérie proceeds to her interview and tries to make a case for herself. But the interviewer immediately disrupts her when he questions her choice to pursue mechanical over civil engineering; the latter, he suggests, is more popular for women because it’s easier and allows them to raise a family. The misogynistic implication of his words is clear: Valérie obviously cannot handle the rigors of the harder discipline if she has “motherly” aspirations. The camera closes in on her face as she struggles to answer the question; the sexism has isolated her in the conversation. Far from finding it easier to get a job as per the killer’s proclamations, she’s immediately forced to jump through additional hoops that her male counterparts would never have to deal with.
She goes to the bathroom to deal with her frustrations and finds herself surrounded by a series of reflections, a sea of Valéries caught up in the fracture opened by the interviewer’s intrusion. But the camera pans through these series of reflections until it comes onto a frame of close-up of a singular reflection of Valérie; she’s found herself once again and proceeds forward. Unlike the killer who refuses to look inwards and seeks external scapegoats for his issues, she looks inwards and finds something to affirm.
The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) can make no connections even in a sea of people.The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) sits in his car alone. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) comforts Stéphanie (Evelyne Brochu). JF (Sébastien Huberdeau) struggles with his his homework. JF notices Valérie (Karine Vanasse) and Stéphanie (Evelyne Brochu). JF gets help from Valérie while Stéphanie (Evelyne Brochu) listens. While the killer finds himself unable to make any meaningful connection even while surrounded by persons, his male counterpart, JF, is able to easily communicate and interact with everyone. He finds no qualms with getting science help from Valérie.
We cut to a cafeteria where a host of students converse among themselves and engage in everyday behavior. The killer makes his way through the crowd as if looking for something but ends up even more isolated amongst the crowd. He’s unable to find any connection and goes to his car as a non-diegetic score briefly comes into play again.
But it quickly dissipates as Stéphanie comes into the frame; she’s looking for Valérie to get the details on the interview and comforts her friend over the less-than-pleasant encounter. Valérie reveals that she got the job because she played the part expected by the interviewer and claimed she wasn’t interested in having kids; she was forced to repress her desire to get a “fair” chance”
The conversation dissipates and up-beat diegetic music starts to play as the camera goes through the students gathered in the cafeteria to find JF sitting in frustration; he’s incapable of figuring out a problem and spots Valérie and Stéphanie amongst everyone. He immediately goes to greet them and asks for help solving the problem. Valérie lends him his notes and he goes to copy them. Once again, Valérie comes to the aid of a friend, male instead of female this time around. The killer’s speech is once again emphatically disproved as the most knowledgeable person, the one willing to help both women and men, is a woman.
JF (Sébastien Huberdeau) talks to a woman next to the printer. JF (Sébastien Huberdeau) stares at the artwork. The “Guernica”.
Furthermore, in sharp contrast to the killer, JF is more than amenable to women and accepts their help and friendship just as willingly as he would any man. While scanning, he exchanges kind words with another woman looking to use the photocopier and quickly takes his notes. But his gaze gets caught up in a painting.
The non-diegetic score creeps back in while the camera slowly pushes in on a copy of Picasso’s “Guernica”; the piece of art uses “lack of color to express the starkness of the aftermath of the bombing”. It serves as an “anti-war symbol” and an “embodiment of peace”. It offers multiple interpretations of its elements. [1]Guernica, 1937 by Pablo Picasso. 10 Facts About Guernica by Pablo Picasso. (n.d.). Retrieved February 5, 2023, from https://www.pablopicasso.org/guernica.jsp
The intensified focus on the painting thus serves a dual purpose: it foreshadows of the violence to come, a violence we’ve already been privy to due to the non-linear telling of the narrative, and aligns the films motivations and some of its structural choices with the paintings. We’ve seen the black-and-white aesthetic on display and the violence proper and, thus, we brace ourselves for the “aftermath” and the “peace” to follow.
This image of violence cuts to the killer’s hands clenched in prayer and his deep breaths merge with the score. He’s getting ready to (re)enact the shooting and looks to steady himself. He scribbles more into his letter, as if anything he has left to say can explain what he’s going to do. Then he hears a group of students talking outside and a women’s voice breaks through his trance. He is ready.
The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) enters the school as a haze. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) is unable to make contact. The Killer (Maxim Gaudette) stares at Valérie and Stéphanie. Valérie (Karine Vanasse) and Stéphanie (Evelyne Brochu) go to their class. The killer is unable to ground his subjectivity in any meaningful way except as an opposing force to women. It’s only when he sees women in his gaze that he is able to to take any action.
He walks back into the school and the camera captures him in a blurry haze reflecting his ill-defined subjectivity. A close-up on his face captures his absolute inability to come to terms with himself in the world. He looks around the space but only sees men around him; his choice of victim does not seem available. But then, like JF, he catches sight of Valérie and Stéphanie heading to class; his choice is set and his victims, women, have been found.
The film continues to swap between these three primary perspectives – the killer, JF, Valérie – before, during, and after the events of the shooting in an attempt to demonstrate the fracturing effect of violence and the way it (re)forms bonds between both individuals and their surroundings. By showing us the violence at the beginning, the film primes us to focus not on the violence itself but on the manner by which it moves through a system and changes it.
In this way, the violence comes to be a formal marker that disrupts the film as much as it disrupts the characters’ lives. The scene of the shooting repeatedly intervenes, demonstrating its violent, traumatic effects on the psyche. The characters who survive are unable to ever fully forget this disruption as it keeps rearing its ugly head. This effect is felt by the viewer as well who is unable to ever enjoy the time with the characters knowing what’s to come; even a peaceful moment after the shooting becomes interrupted as the film threatens to cut to darker times and force us to relive the trauma again.
This editing approach transforms the shooting from a singular event to a site of traumatic commingling as the perspectives of the characters with their respective chronologies bleed into one another in oneiric fashion. A scene goes from being a flashback to being a dream based on whose subjectivity is being recognized; violence fractures individuals and splinters their experience before reforming them in a new image. The interpretatively ambiguous “Guernica” becomes a fitting double to the film as violence shatters the otherwise normal and forces us to question.
This is why the killer is introduced after the effects of his shooting, leaving him as only a symbolic placeholder as an agent of violence; even the credits list him as merely “The Killer.” Both JF and Valérie are introduced after a scene of the killer going through his plans for the day; the former parties are unaware of his presence but his actions will come to severely impact their lives and after they are made to experience the violence, just as the viewer does at the film’s start, time goes out of joint. The film circles this point of senseless brutality and forces us to engage.
But Villeneuve isn’t as interested in the violence by itself as he is in examining its relation to the sexes and the way those demarcations manifest in identity. This is why he jumps between two men – the killer and JF – and a woman – Valérie. The killer can only see women as the cause of his alienation while JF sees them as companions no different from himself. The film repeatedly highlights how the former’s alienation leaves him fully closed off from men and women despite his stated intentions while the latter’s openness leaves him able to freely interact with everyone. Windows being opened versus closed, diegetic versus non-diegetic music, and camera flips help to signify the difference in these spaces, while mirrors help to make sense of how subjects find themselves in relation these spaces. These attributes help visualize violence’s effects as the changes in spaces render women as fungible objects that can be sacrificed and make distinguishing between “good” and “bad” men much more difficult. The set-up allows Villenevue to suggest that the solution to this heinousness lies in communication, he ultimately leaves the final answer up to interpretation.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Polytechnique formally breakdowns a school-shooting from a series of gendered perspectives, including that of the male killer’s, in a non-chronological format in order to examine the way violence fractures subjectivity. Its editing takes advantage of being able to shift between these multi-faceted approaches and is able to oscillate in oneiric fashion that captivates as much as it perplexes.
Rating
10/10
Grade
A+
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
Danielle ( Rachel Sennott) and Max (Danny Deferrari ) have sex. Danielle (Rachel Sennott) answers her mom’s call. Danielle ( Rachel Sennott) recieves a bracelet from Max (Danny Deferrari ) .Danielle ( Rachel Sennott) and Max (Danny Deferrari ) make out. The camera stays in place for the opening scene, utilizing both the foreground and background of the frame to demonstrate the performances that our lead, Danielle, finds herself playing. First, she’s a lover and then she’s a daughter; both roles carry expectations that’s she’s expected to fulfill as she has to toe the line between them.
The film opens on a couple, Danielle (Rachel Sennott) and Max (Danny Deferrari), engaged in sexual activities. The duo is framed in the foreground of the frame, blurred out and out of focus. Yet, we can hear Danielle excitedly plays her part and scream “Daddy” before the encounter ceases. Then, she gets up and enters the frame’s foreground where she answers a call from her mother. As she talks to her parental figure, she covers up her lover, the bearer of the parental sexually-charged signifier – a point of contrast neatly communicated via the layers of the frame.
Max gets up to join Danielle as the latter finishes her conversation and tries to pry information out of her regarding her other activities; he’s most keen to figure out if she’s going to see other men. Thus, the relationship between “sugar baby” and “sugar daddy” is revealed – an extension of the parental comparison. She resists giving information as he valorizes himself for supporting young “women entrepreneurs”, revealing that his payments are going towards Danielle’s law degree. He gifts her a bracelet and pauses on giving her compensation till she reminds him; it’s clear he wants her to admit that feelings for him are her primary motivator instead of just the financial ones but he acquiesces as she engages in a passionate kiss with him.
Danielle (Rachel Sennott) smiles. Danielle (Rachel Sennott) lets her face rest. Joel (Fred Melamed) calls to Danielle. Joel (Fred Melamed) hugs Danielle. Danielle (Rachel Sennott) stares at Maya. Maya (Molly Gordon) stares at Danielle. Debbie (Polly Draper) warns Danielle. Danielle (Rachel Sennott) asks for info on the “shiva”. Danielle (Rachel Sennott) feigns compassion for the bereaved. The role’s Danielle is expected to playa continues to expand as she continues to come into contact with new persons. Distinct points of comparison are laid, the most obvious of which is the designator “Daddy” which she uses to refer to both her Sugar Daddy and her father proper. In an ever shifting sea of terms, Danielle must find her place while kowtowing to expectations – social, parental, and personal. The farcical nature of these interactions is made explicit.
We cut to Danielle walking along a street, now dressed in professional clothing; composer Ariel Marx’s score composed of discordant strings starts to play punctuating the moment. Danielle’s unenergetic face gives way to a false display of jubilation as she greets someone on the road before collapsing back into a more downtrodden expression. She’s clearly playing more than one part.
The camera pivots from her to a car where her father, Joel (Fred Melamed), calls to her. She calls out to “Daddy” before giving him a quick hug and going to the other side to talk to her mother, Debbie (Polly Draper), who immediately begins a painful, yet relatable interrogation of her daughter, calling attention to the bracelet on Danielle’s wrist; Danielle tries to conceal the origin of the bracelet and insists it’s a graduation present from her parents. Thankfully, her parents quickly move on and proceed to run Danielle through the latter’s “soundbites” for the event: she’s finishing finals and has a few job interviews. Yet another performance for Danielle to perform.
During this conversation, Danielle notices another party entering the scene. This young woman, Maya (Molly Gordon), looks quizzically on Danielle. Debbie fills in the blanks for the audience, informing us that Maya and Danielle were formerly dating, when she warns her daughter not to engage in any “funny” business. Finally, the trio is ready to enter the event. Right before getting in, Danielle reveals that said event is a funerary one, a “shiva”, a Jewish mourning ritual, when she asks “who died”. Immediately, the film cuts and shows Danielle expressing sympathies for the departed- a comedic edit by director Emma Seligman that makes explicit the farcical nature of the performances being enacted.
It’s this setting, the house where the “shiva” is taking place, where Danielle finds herself trapped in for the rest of the film’s run-time. Marx’s terrifying string-based score finds itself free reign here, as Danielle finds herself surrounded on all sides by “Other” parties, parents included, who seek to cast judgement and call attention to the multiple roles she finds herself playing.
Danielle (Rachel Sennott) notices Max. Max (Danny Deferrari) talks to Joel (Fred Melamed).Max (Danny Deferrari) n otices Danielle. Danielle (Rachel Sennott) makes eye contact with Max. The consequences of messing up this social juggling is revealed when Danielle’s Sugar Daddy, Max, is revealed to also be at the “shiva”. Thus, the profane is introduced to the religious and she finds herself truly trapped in an arena where a misstep could totally unravel everything.
The stakes of these potential encounters become fully revealed when Danielle notices Max, of all people, talking to her father in a doorway. She looks at him and he looks back at her in shock. Of all the places, the two find themselves face-to-face at a religious function where their illicit relationship can definitely not rear its head. Thus, the stage is fully set as Danielle finds herself in the presence of not only elderly figures who will naturally find some way to probe or disapprove but also finds herself in the presence of her former lover and current sugar-daddy; this is a recipe for disaster and Seligman commits to taking us there.
Despite being set in primarily one location, Seligman refuses to let things remain uncinematic and constantly utilizes close-ups and mediums with faces and bodies crowding the frame from all sides to create a never-ending feeling of discomfort. Given the films interests, the ability for a subject, in this case Danielle, to find themselves among a sea of persons, norms, and expectations, the focus on “Other” persons constantly invading one’s space is genius aesthetic move. This visual cluttering is accentuated by an auditory crowding; like the Safdie’s brothers Uncut Gems, characters constantly talk over one another and their pieces of dialogue are just as intrusive as the character’s bodies themselves. Seligman accentuates this noise with Marx’s non-diegetic score and allows harsh diegetic noises, like the cries of a baby, to blend in, creating an uncomfortable, harsh experience that genuinely generates a foreboding feeling; something feels like it’s on the verge of breaking at every point.
It’s telling that one feels a visceral fear upon seeing an unknown hand reach in from just outside the frame to tap Danielle; every interaction is a potential minefield to be navigated and the supremely crowded audio-visual landscape means that there are infinitely many of such encounters. Key choices made in the mise-en-scene, namely the use of red objects which accentuate the lighting during pivotal encounters, cast said scenes in a hellish ambiance that adds an expressionistic flair to the film and make the fever pitch Danielle’s decisions have led and are leading to explicitly clear. If she can’t find a “point” to ground herself to, she’ll end up swept in the current of the “Other’s” judgement. The film utilizes horror trappings and conventions to demonstrate the terrors that come with trying to find and carve out a space for one’s identity.
Consequently, the identitarian doublings set up at the film’s start – “Daddy” for a lover versus for a parent- only continue to expand as more terms and points of comparison get added with each additional encounter Danielle finds herself privy to. By bouncing between these points and their established counter-points, Seligman is able to emphasize the difficulty in establishing one’s agency regardless of whether or not they follow the proper edicts or go against them.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Shiva Baby brilliantly examines the pressures that come with trying to find oneself while juggling personal and social expectations. By utilizing the trappings of a horror film, namely a discordant string-based score, the film is able to transform awkward social encounters into confrontations with “monsters” whose sole purpose seem to be prying and uncovering one’s darkest secrets. The result is a fantastic blend of comedy and gripping tension that keeps you enthralled from start to finish.
Rating
9.7/10
Grade
A+
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
The book has no title. Shrek reads a fairytale. Shrek rips out the last page of the book. Shrek opens his outhouse. Shrek wipes away mud, unearthing the title card. Shrek makes “Beware” signs. The town has bounty posters for ogres. The townspeople begin to invade the swamp. The film opens with a fairytale before quickly throwing it aside in favor of a pop music montage showcasing our ogre protagonist Shrek going about his filth-filled day. While he has a blast, townsfolk threaten to invade and capture him for a reward.
Composers Harry Gregson-Williams and John Powell’s ethereal and aptly titled track “Fairytale” plays as the Dreamworks logo begins, encapsulating the film before the narrative proper even starts. A leather-bound book with no discernible title sits in the middle of the frame; the book opens and a voice begins to narrate an archetypal tale of a hero rescuing a princess.
The tale comes to an abrupt close as the narrator incredulously laughs at the story’s insinuation of a true love being able to overcome insurmountable odds, and his green hand subsequently rips the page out to use as a piece of toilet paper; the fairytale becomes the literal butt of the joke.
Accordingly, when the narrator, an ogre named Shrek (Mike Myers), bursts out of his outhouse, the film’s musical stylings switch from Gregson-William and Powell’s “Fairytale” to “All Star” by Smash Mouth. In sharp contrast to the diegetic song-and-dance routine characteristic of the Disney Renaissance films (The Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Mulan) preceding Shrek’s release, this non-diegetic infusion of pop serves as the perfect punch-line to Shrek’s earlier subversive gesture and announces the film’s deconstructive tendencies: Songs play in the backdrop but Shrek refuses to give in to their allure and sing along. He’s not your typical protagonist.
The ogre then brushes aside a coat of mud, unearthing the film’s title card, before the film cuts to a montage of Shrek’s everyday activities: he bathes in mud, brushes his teeth with slug slime, and creates warning signs to keep people off of his property. A match cut from his sign reveals that the townspeople, like Shrek, have constructed signs about an ogre, but theirs is a bounty poster which promises a reward for bringing such a creature in. The people begin a trek into the swamp to confront the ogre menace.
Shrek is lit from below.Shrek roars.Shrek’s face gets closer. Close-up of Shrek’s mouth Shrek scares the townspeople. A bounty poster for fairytale creatures drops. A fairytale creature is carted off….…revealing a host of chained and imprisoned fairytale creatures. Shrek purposefully makes use of social stigma surrounding orcs, playing into the monster stories the people earnestly believe. The lighting, canted angles, and close-ups evoke the feeling of a monster film, revealing the nature of Shrek’s performance. However, while he’s able to keeping himself free, his fellow fairytale creatures are far less lucky; many of them have been imprisoned and are set to be relocated.
The musical montage comes to a close as the townsfolk finally enter the swamp. But Shrek appears behind them and is lit in such a way as to accentuate his monstrous features. He calmly explains the terrors of ogres to the people before engaging in a theatrical display demonstrating the same. The camera hones in on the intensity of his ostentatious roar with three separate shots, each of which cuts closer to his face. The use of heightened lighting, canted angles, and horrific close-ups intentionally evokes the stylings of a monster film in the vein Frankenstein (the set-up also involves a horde with torches surrounding a green monster which adds to the feeling), but we know it’s performative from Shrek’s side as he calmly tells his audience to depart after said presentation, prompting the latter group’s chaotic escape.
A poster flies away from one of them during said departure, and Shrek notices that it’s an ad promising financial compensation for fairytale creatures; it’s not just ogres that the people seem to be after. Another match-cut transports us from the crudely drawn fantasy creature on the poster to the creature proper locked up in a carriage. The vehicle moves off-screen and reveals a deluge of imprisoned fairytale creatures being carted off and sold to a host of soldiers. If the farcical nature of the film wasn’t clear enough, the representation of the fairytale genre via the creatures making up its milieu literally being partitioned, exchanged for scraps of wealth, and shipped away in cells emphatically hammers home the film’s interests.
The old woman tries to sell Donkey. Donkey flies off. Donkey hides behind Shrek. The captain confronts Shrek. Shrek pushes back. The captain is left alone with Shrek. Donkey escapes the exchange site and seeks refuge with Shrek. The latter manages to scare off the soldiers after the former.
A woman walks up to the front of the exchange line and tries to trade her talking donkey (Eddie Murphy). The guard asks for a demonstration of the creature’s talents before accepting him, but Donkey, who up to this moment had been desperately conversing with the woman in an attempt to avert said exchange, refuses to modify his performance and compromise his position. But when fairy dust is sprinkled on him inadvertently causing him to fly, he begins to boast of his prodigious abilities as he begins to mount a grand escape. The moment intentionally evokes Dumbo, leading us to believe that Donkey will fly out with the aid of his newfound powers.
Then he falls back to the ground because this is Shrek and magic, like other genre accoutrements, refuses to work as expected. Instead of flying off, Donkey makes a mad dash through a forest and bumps into Shrek. Caught between the soldiers and the ogre, Donkey picks the latter and hides behind him. The armed group approaches Shrek, clearly scared of the green behemoth. The group’s leader reveals that the group is under orders to round up and relocate all fairytale creatures by dictates of a Lord Farquaad (John Lithgow).
We cut to Shrek who asks which army will be in charge of his resettlement at which point we cut back to the leader completely alone and his army long gone. Like the townspeople, the soldiers are too frightened by ogre tales and refuse to deal with the creatures.
Shrek tries to scare Donkey. Shrek stares at Donkey from above. Donkey and Shrek make their way to the swamp. Shrek’s theatrics don’t work on Donkey and fail at deterring the latter. Shrek is forced to deal with the burgeoning relationship.
But the honest Donkey refuses to buy into the mythos, demonstrating a considerable apathy to Shrek’s horrific performance. He tries to break into a song about friendship, an attempt at introducing the film’s pop stylings in traditional diegetic fashion, but is quickly interrupted by Shrek who refuses to allow a musical moment to happen. In an attempt to terminate any possible relationship between the two, Shrek tries to pull out the same theatrics from his previous acts, glowering down on Donkey from below and growling at him with a monstrous bellow. Yet, Donkey responds with friendship instead of fear and asks for Shrek’s name – a first for the ogre – in an attempt to get to know one another.
The fairytale creatures surround Shrek’s swamp. Shrek is bequeathed a heroic robe made of flowers. Shrek and Donkey leave for Duloc. Shrek’s response to the fairytale creatures plight is meant to be vitriolic but is cast as heroic; the group accepts Shrek as their savior and crowns him their champion. He may not believe in heroes but there is belief he can be one.
However, Donkey’s goodwill only gets him so much: Shrek allows him to stay on the patio for the night but offers no other commodities, going so far as to eat a nice dinner by himself while Donkey sits outside. But Shrek’s peace is quickly interrupted as the fairytale creatures being rounded from earlier begin to spring up from every corner of his house before ousting him out of the abode; the camera pulls up to reveal Shrek surrounded by the entirety of the fairytale crowd imprisoned earlier in the day.
Desperate to disperse the crowd, Shrek learns that their arrival on his property is due to the orders of Farquaad; much to his chagrin, it turns out his swamp has been designated the fairytale dumping ground. Shrek vows to go to Farquaad and evict the crowd from his property. He operates under the assumption that his actions will be decried but the crowd around him, desperate to go back to where they came, cheer for his proclamation and crown him as their champion – a hero fighting for fairytales.
He takes Donkey along as a guide and sets off. Once again, Donkey tries to break into song; the moment is the perfect point where older animated musical fantasies would narrate the journey via song. But he’s stopped by Shrek once more and is only allowed to hum. The ogre might be forced to play hero for the fairytale crowd, but he refuses to go along with the musical script expected.
The interrogation room is set up. Farquaad’s feet. Milk is poured into a glass. Farquaad fastens his gloves. Farquaad approaches. Farquad looks at the door. Farquaad’s size is revealed. Farquaad gazes on the Gingerbread man being tortured. Farquaad’s interrogation builds the member of royalty up before swiftly bringing him back down to size. The theatrical authority by which he presents himself is undermined by his stature and absurd agenda.
Meanwhile, the aforementioned Farquaad proceeds to an interrogation. His journey to the interrogation room is cross-cut against the room being set up with a glass of milk of all things; intrigue begins to build. We see his feet, his gloves, and his visage framed from angles which emphasize their size and prominence; there’s a weight to his authority and an importance granted to his frame. An over-the-shoulder shots maintains the illusion of this power for a moment, but as Farquaad moves to the center of the frame, his short stature is revealed and his menacing authority is ripped from underneath his feet. When he finally enters the room and the subject of his punishment is revealed to be none other the Gingerbread Man (the milk qua torture begins to makes sense), the upending is complete: Farquaad feels like a huge joke.
Farquaad questions the Mirror. The Mirror gets ready to present……three princess candidates.Cinderella. Snow White.Fiona. Farquaad selects Fiona as his princess-to-be, choosing the only non-Disney character in the bunch. This is a new kind of fairytale.
The absurd interrogation is quickly brought to a close when Farquaad’s forces bring in a magical mirror similar to the one in Sleeping Beauty. Farquaad, seeking to stroke his ego, asks the mirror to confirm the greatness of his kingdom but is promptly rebuked: Farquaad, without a queen by his side, is no king and must remedy the situation to achieve his goals.
Consequently, the mirror breaks into a date-show presentation of three princess candidates for Farquaad to choose between for marriage: Cinderalla, Snow White, and Fiona (Cameron Diaz). It’s telling that his choice of bride-to-be is Fiona, the only one of the group who has no former Disney connection. After making his choice, “Escape” by Rupert Holmes plays from the mirror as part of its presentation. This diegetic use of music, a direct contrast to the non-diegetic use of “Smash Mouth” earlier during Shrek’s introduction, signifies Farquaad’s desire: the royal ruler wants to be the legendary hero of old, rescuing his princess partner from a seemingly insurmountable situation and buys into general narrative trappings, musical evocations included.
In this manner, the mirror serves as an analog to the book that Shrek was reading at the film’s start; both mediums present aspects of the mythical hero narrative prevent in the genre and have the respective hero characters orient themselves in regards to the same. Shrek decries the validity of the tales while Farquaad seems to enmesh himself within their fabric.
Shrek and Donkey enter Duloc. The town is empty but has music playing. Shrek and Donkey experience an instructional musical piece. Duloc is filled with music and intentionally evokes the Disney feeling and aesthetic that Shrek so clearly despises.
The musical cues represent proximity to the dictates of the genre which explains Shrek’s reluctance and non-diegetic relationship with music and Farquaad’s embrace of a diegetic relationship with it. This is why the latter’s town, Duloc, is crafted to look like a fictional version of DisneyWorld complete with music playing at all times. Shrek and Donkey hear elevator music in the empty townscape and are then greeted by a song-and-dance number by a mechanical information apparatus; despite his reluctance, Shrek is forced to tango with the musical intrusion and what comes with it.
Farquaad tells the soldiers to kill Shrek. Shrek opens a barrel of ale. Shrek and Donkey curry public favor. Farquaad shifts gears and designates Shrek as champion. Shrek is presented with the opportunity to be a hero and retrieve the princess. The journey he scoffed at earlier is now an option he can embrace. Yet, he’s unable to be authentic with himself and only accepts the quest on the premise that the fairytale residents on his property will be promptly removed. He’s going on a fairytale quest to remove the fairytale influence in his life: the deconstructive journey begins.
Shrek and Farquaad finally confront one another in a stadium where the latter is hosting trials to select a champion, a hero by proxy capable of engaging in the heroic quest necessary to retrieve Fiona. With an ogre present, Farquaad decides that any one person capable of besting such a monstrosity will be more than capable enough of slaying a dragon, retrieving Fiona, and returning back; he gives the order to attack.
But Shrek absolutely decimates every hero candidate all while “Bad Reputation” plays in the background. At first glance the lyrics suggest that Shrek doesn’t care about improving his social standing or currying anyone’s favor, but his theatrical acquiescence towards the crowd and their demands for performative battle in the vein of wrestling suggests the total opposite: it’s not that he doesn’t care about improving as much as he’s never received an opportunity to change him image.
And it’s this opportunity that Farquaad presents Shrek upon the latter’s absolute victory in battle – a chance to play the part of hero. However, Shrek’s emphatic response to the crowd is short-lived and his disavowal of the archetype’s bells and whistles rushes back in; instead of accepting the quest to embrace the hero lying beneath, Shrek only agrees to Farquaad’s request under the guarantee that his swamp will be returned free of any and all fairytale influence. Thus, the duo sets off on their unheroic, selfishly-motivated hero’s journey.
This disjunction marks the parameters by which the film operates as it swings from lampooning genre conventions to embracing them in a deconstructive fashion. The “traditional” approach popularized by Disney where the protagonist goes overcomes their internal struggles, becomes heroic, and overcome their foes is represented by classical musical choices and the presence of diegetic music numbers, whereas the “non-traditional” approach the film (and Shrek) more explicitly embrace is characterized by the modern song choices and non-diegetic musical montage. Both of these approaches vie for supremacy as the narrative progresses, trading places and functions as Shrek reckons with what his tale truly entails.
The juxtaposition of the film’s more classic sounding score against the pop enthusiasm of its soundtrack exposes Shrek’s disavowal of singing while rendering him a subject of its power. In this sense, just like the social forces within the film which force Shrek to embrace a heroic role, the traditional scoring cues reveal the underlying mood and importance of the moment. In contrast, the needle-drop moments reveal Shrek’s internal machinations, bubbling under the surface, waiting to be unearthed. Diegetic and non-diegetic sound choices represent the shifting tides of this identarian battle as Shrek struggles to reconcile the villainous ogre persona he’s cultivated due to social pressures and the seemingly contradictory heroic persona driving his decisions. By taking advantage of the possibilities generated through strategic interplay of score and soundtrack Shrek is able to achieve a balance between the fantastical and the everyday.
Thus, the sound design ostensibly works to entertain and keep the viewer engaged with its more modern sensibilities all while subtly cueing us in to where Shrek is on the journey to find and embrace the nature of his desires. Like Wes Craven’s Scream, Shrek (to a lesser extent) reveals the underlying logic of its genre, drawing attention to the mechanisms at play, but never undermines them in such a manner to make them ineffective, allowing the film the chance to capitalize on those tropes later on. This combined with both the everyday feel of both the overt soundscape and Shrek’s characterization as vulgar yet endearing gives the fantasy tale a down-to-earth feeling, making it increasingly accessible in spite of its subversive gestures.
Unfortunately, like Scream, Shrek’s success and ingenuity revitalized its genre with lesser emulations (including some sequels) which mimic its appearance but never achieve the same emotional resonance. Films copy the crude humor, expressive animation, genre lampooning, modern songs, and celebrity voice-over acting – all elements of Shrek which are memorable and work – but forgets that these characteristics are utilized in service of the overarching ideas of the film, namely that of expanding the possibilities inherent in fairytales and the narratives the genre can offer up.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
Revolutionary at the time and hard to beat even now, Shrek‘s deconstruction of the Disney Renaissance era films provides a breath of fresh air for animated fantasy musicals while retaining the magic that genre lovers expect. The pop stylings and crude humor go hand-in-hand with an evocative, ogre-filled hero’s journey.
Rating
10/10
Grade
A+
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
A message comes in. It’s transmitted to the Dark Star.A man (Miles Watkins) from Central Command communicates. From the very start, communication is revealed to be something that can be compartmentalized and commodified. The bureaucratic machine can turn a profit but can’t do anything to help.
A red screen takes center frame. A message meant for the ship “Dark Star” begins to play. A man (Miles Watkins) from Mission Control informs the ship’s crew that the message they previously sent took near 10 years to get transmitted back to Earth where it was broadcast to rave reviews. He smirks and asks the crew to send increase the pace of the messages sent, a redundant gesture given aforementioned temporal delays.
But to add insult to injury, he proceeds to inform them that their request for mechanical assistance to deal with a radiation leak has been declined due to the same distance issues; sending up tools to their location is financially infeasible. Thus, communication is rendered nothing more than a product, losing its function as connective tool. The crew’s messages are nothing more than nicely packaged goods meant to be consumed as entertainment by the public on prime-time instead of as genuine requests for assistance meant to be acted on. They make profit but are awarded none of its spoils. The communicative farce brings to a close as the man gleefully tells the crew they’ll make do in spite of the difficulties.
The Dark Star ship flies into frame. The crew presses buttons. Pinback (Dan O’Bannon) converses with the bomb. The bomb responds. The film’s budget becomes apparent from the very start but the major beats of the story are never unclear.
Director John Carpenter’s electronic synth score plays, generating a propulsive energy as the ship appears on screen flying towards a planet. We get a view of the crew; one member – Talby (Dre Pahich) stays at the top of the ship while another 3 members – Doolittle (Brian Narelle), Pinback (Dan O’Bannon), Boiler (Cal Kuniholm) – work in a chamber of sorts. The group work in tandem to drop a bomb from their ship.
Pinback (Dan O’Bannon) proceeds to engage in cordial conversation with the bomb to set it up for its upcoming drop and Carpenter employs the traditional shot-reverse-shot between Pinback and the bomb itself, elevating the artificial intelligence qua tool of destruction to a similar agential field as the crew proper. The bomb is released and the crew engages in hyperdrive to get out of the area before the explosion goes off.
The Dark Star moves towards the vanishing point. A planet follows. The Dark Star moves towards the camera. The stars begin to move…… and break into streaks of different colored lights. The Dark Star travels through the light streams. The crew braces for immpact. A report about of the destruction .The ship is far away from the explosion. Quick cuts, references to science fiction milieu, and a sense of forward momentum within the frame help Carpenter showcase a hyperdrive sequence that’s effective in spite of the budgetary limitations in play.
Carpenter deftly conveys the effects of such a maneuver in spite of obvious budgetary limitations. The ship quickly “moves” forward into the screen and disappears into a vanishing point created by the movement. A planet emulates the ship’s motion and disappears in a similar fashion. Then, the ship is seen approaching the frame from its front-side, and it comes into the frame before the screen cuts to a view of the stars.
The series of cuts up to now have generated a forward momentum within the frame and the stars begin to blur into streaks of multiple different colors. Another cut reveals the ship flying past a host of streaking colors, demonstrating the intensity of the ship’s speed.
The green lights in the chamber accentuate the intensity of the event before we cut to a screen read-out charting the explosion’s success. The final shot highlights the ship in the foreground and explosion in the background and makes the distance travelled more apparent.
Each part of this sequence is low-tech and has the propensity to feel jarring in its own right, but Carpenter knows exactly how to use them in tandem to present a convincing sequence of the crew successfully accomplishing their mission: they bomb uninhabited areas which may impede future human colonization.
The ship’s computer congratulates the crew on a nice bomb run before they set out to their next mission location. Boiler locates a 95% probability of intelligent life in one sector and asks Pinback if they should head out there; the latter scoffs at the suggestion and reminds the group that when Powell led them to find life during his tenure as ship leader, they only discovered a mindless balloon-like creature that they could do nothing meaningful with; bomb runs have proven to be more productive uses of time. This cynical move to prioritize destruction over preservation extends the farcical nature of the initial transmission sent to the ship: in a world where communication is a compartmentalized product instead of connective force, there’s no reason to prioritize incorporating more voices into one’s discursive sphere.
Thus, the crew continues on their merry way: they ignore all signs of life, plot out the destruction of planets which may impede a future humanity’s evolution, and send communications doomed to receive no meaningful responses back to this same humanity. Carpenter and screen-writer Dan O’Bannon tap into darkly comedic, misanthropic stylings of Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb in the way they navigate communicative failure and humanity’s drive towards violence but cross it against a futuristic milieu which pays homage to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, namely in the way it uses artificial intelligence as a way to define and tease out the parameters of humanity and its tendencies.
By using two of Kubrick’s masterpieces as spring-boards for Dark Star, Carpenter and O’Bannon give what started out as a student-film enough momentum to work as a feature-length film[1]IMDb.com. (n.d.). Dark star. IMDb. Retrieved July 11, 2022, from https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0069945/trivia/?ref_=tt_trv_trv. The film spends its run-time constantly demonstrating the way communication operates and breaks apart on the ship: the crew-members avoid talking to one another in favor of recording their messages for record-keeping or transmission while the most talkative parties end up being the ship’s main computer and the bombs themselves. By primarily orienting the film around screens and non-human entities, Carpenter is able to create effective set-pieces that expand on the themes without the need for grandiose visuals.
Unfortunately, the gaps made by stretching out the narrative’s running-time are large and frequent enough to seriously dampen the pacing, drawing a negative attention to the film’s sparsity. Communicative efforts between the characters, which already hinge on a dry, wit that may not work for many viewers, often devolve into unclever, insipid moments that feel like run-time extensions, undermining narrative momentum and making the 83-minute film feel like a slog to get through at times.
The intent behind these moments is discernible given the film’s thematic context, but the execution suggests a focus on ensuring the relevant footage exists rather than elevating it with a more intricate build-up. Yet, the thematic intent of the narrative buoys it through its less than memorable moments, culminating in a finale that brings together the film’s best elements in satisfying fashion. Despite being a (very) far cry from his best work, Dark Star serves as a charming calling card for Carpenter’s filmography-to-come, portending the cynical, misanthropic, anti-establishment attitude that will characterize much of it.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
In spite of production issues and limitations, John Carpenters debut film, Dark Star, should provide more than enough laughs for viewers in the mood for a wry, cynical science-fiction feature that asks what life should look like in a world where authentic communication seems inaccessible.
Rating
7.8/10
Grade
B
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
NOTE: This is a new release and the review is based off a theatre viewing. This means the review won’t feature common elements like visual analysis, extended theme analysis, or long-form discussions of the cinematic techniques being used. Once I am able to get a copy of the movie to watch, pause, analyze, and get stills from the review will be updated to match the current site’s standard.
A Little League baseball game is underway. The pitcher, Finney (Mason Thames), winds up and throws the ball. The batter, Bruce (Tristan Pravong), swings and misses. Strike one. The crowd cheers for Finney and he can feel their approval hanging in the balance.
He winds up and throws again. Strike two. The crowd’s encouragement increases. A girl within the crowd stares at Finney with affection. He takes notice; the pressure is on.
The ball leaves his hand on the third throw but this time Bruce is ready for it; the bat connects with the ball and it soars over the gates – a homerun. Suddenly, the momentum flips and Bruce becomes the recipient of the adulation while Finney is relegated to the periphery.
We follow Bruce as he leaves the field, glowing in victory. Edgar Winters’ “Free Ride” plays evoking a feeling of jubilation. But then a black van enters the frame and the color and sound begin to fade leaving an all-consuming void in its wake – the happy façade breaks to reveal the grotesque underbelly.
Mark Korven’s unsettling score complete with a rhythmic pulse and discordant fluctuations starts to play as the title credits start to play – it’s time to enter the dark. This montage is presented in an aesthetic fashion similar to director Scott Derickson’s previous horror film, Sinister, utilizing the grainy texture of film stock proper to accentuate the uncanny series of images. In strong contrast to the opening’s evocation of a cheery 70’s milieu, the decisive switch in aesthetic and tone is a grim reminder of the horrors of the time lurking in wait – kidnappings and missing children on milk cartons, and the like.
It’s from this fractured backdrop that we join Finney once again. He’s revealed to be a prime target of hostile forces all around. From a drunk, violent father at home to bullies at school, Finney is constantly forced into compromising positions where he finds himself wholly at the whims of other parties; even when he’s bailed out of the awful situations he finds himself in, it’s due to the efforts of his friend Robin (Cazarez Mora) and his sister Gwen (Madeleine McGraw) intervening on his behalf. His own sense of agency is sorely lacking.
But when he’s kidnapped by a serial child abductor referred to as the “Grabber” (Ethan Hawke), Finney is forced to abandon his passivity and discover his strengths or die trying. He finds himself trapped in a seemingly isolated and sound-proofed basement structure with no tools in sight sans a broken telephone attached on the wall. Yet, while the phone isn’t plugged into any power source and seems completely busted up, it still rings, serving as an conduit to unseen forces from the beyond who seek to intervene in the seemingly impossible situation.
The supernatural propels the narrative forward, operating on a mostly demonstrative, seldom explained layer that works to supplement the true-crime horror narrative. While the presentation of this material feels like an extension of Sinister in tone and feel, its use is more in line with Derrickson’s earlier supernatural procedural, The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Like that film, otherworldly phenomena – grainy dream-sequences and spectral sightings – are couched within ambiguities which gestures towards multiple different angles of interpretation. This explicative restraint works in the films favor as it lets the characters’ struggles take focus; the supernatural set-pieces are just pieces of connective tissue that characters find themselves working with and through and are not the cause of interest in end of themselves.
The primary source of scares comes from Hawke’s “Grabber”, an masked man teetering on the edge of an emotional meltdown. At one moment he’s coy and wants to play nice. At another he’s downright malicious and one step away from a violent explosion. For every persona, he dons a new mask on, accentuating his instability and giving Hawke ample opportunity to flex his facial muscles in new, menacing configurations. The uncertainty behind what he wants adds to the suffocating feeling as his erratic behavior presents a minefield for Finney to traverse through.
However, while Finney finds himself powerless at the start of the film, he quickly finds himself changing for what the situation calls. His experiences dealing with abuse in more grounded scenarios helps him play the Grabber’s inexplicable games as the latter’s acts just feels like an amplification of the atrocities he’s used to dealing with. Thus, his progression is clearly demarcated; the film uses its opening to demonstrate where Finney struggles and then utilizes the supernatural trappings of his struggle with the Grabber to highlight his growth.
The film does misstep slightly when it comes to wrapping up all the relevant story threads as the manner by which certain narrative parallels made between the domestic and horrific conclude seem incongruous with one another, but the overwhelming momentum of how Finney’s arc culminates more than buoys the issue.
REPORT CARD
TLDR
The Black Phone is Scott Derrickson’s best film as of yet and seems him combining the aesthetic sensibilities and sense of unease from Sinister with the narrative ambiguity and supernatural restraint of The Exorcism of Emily Rose. The result is a tense, supernatural, character-driven story that earns its shocks.
Rating
8.9/10
Grade
A
Go to Page 2 for the spoiler discussion and more in-depth analysis. Go to Page 3 to view this review’s progress report .
