2025 Tarkovsky Prize Honorable Mention: Phoebe Tan

Mass Media Conglomerate Culture in The Truman Show

by Phoebe Tan

The 1998 film The Truman Show, directed by Peter Weir, is known for being a classic of its time, and continues to be widely known decades after its release date. A large part of its popularity likely comes from the irony of it in a way that makes us wonder if our lives are also constantly surveilled like Truman's, and if anything is real. I took a class called Mass Media and Society this summer, and when I saw the film for the first time, I immediately was able to draw many parallels between Truman's world and ours. The main one was how Christof's relationship to Truman in the film is similar to that of mass media conglomerates to us, their audience, in real life. The Truman Show is synonymous with the fabricated reality presented to us by mass media conglomerates.

In the Truman Show, Christof is like a mass media conglomerate in real life. Mass media conglomerates are large companies, like Disney, that own many other media companies. There are only six main mass media conglomerates; this means six huge companies control almost all the media we see, from newspapers to movies to social media. If we think about it, it's a very large amount of control in the hands of a small number of people. This is similar to Christof's role in the film. He controls all of what Truman sees and experiences, from the weather to his conversations with his best friend. Christof has a lot of control over Truman's life, similar to the role of mass media conglomerates in our lives. In real life, news companies that lean heavily to either the right or left amplify their audience's thoughts in a way: they say things that push their audience further to the right or left, creating a divide in American politics between the right and the left. Christof, like our mass media conglomerates, also uses Truman the way mass media conglomerates use their audience for personal gain. Christof exploits Truman to make money, even saying that the show generates as much money as a small country. This is similar to companies creating algorithms that are designed to keep their audiences on their websites for longer. By doing this, they can generate more ad revenue and make themselves increasingly more wealthy. Christof's blatant exploitation of Truman made me feel pity for him, but also makes me think about how we should also pity ourselves, then, because we are in the same situation as Truman; being controlled and manipulated by a larger force for their personal gain, at our expense.

Another way our reality is similar to Truman's is the advertising. The advertisement strategies shown in the film, like product placement by Meryl, are also like the advertisement strategies used by media companies in real life. Throughout the film, Meryl strategically advertises several different products, including coffee beans, a lawn mower, and a multi-use kitchen tool. In the beginning, she does it subtly, barely mentioning the kitchen tool's three uses. But over the course of the film, she becomes increasingly more obvious about her attempts to advertise different products, like the coffee beans. It becomes so strange that even Truman questions her about it, asking her who she's talking to. This scene, and the one where she ends up breaking down and screaming for help made me feel fearful for Meryl. This is similar to real life, when we make fun of advertisements that seem to try too hard to sell a product, like the insurance guy who's always getting in some crazy accident. These ads attempt to make us laugh and remember them in a positive way, but more often, they are remembered for being annoying and trying too hard to be comedic. But there are also more subtle examples, like when celebrities use a certain brand of product and that product becomes super popular. In both The Truman Show and real life, companies use our psychology to manipulate us into wanting to buy a product more, which in turn increases their ad revenue.

Seeing Truman break free from Christof's control can be taken and applied to our own lives, where we can escape from the "cage" we're in, created by mass media. For Truman, it was to literally break free from the cage Christof put him in. For us, it is breaking free from being controlled by these large media companies. To stop scrolling on TikTok endlessly, to stop believing everything we see on the internet, and start questioning things. To break free from reality as we know it will be challenging, but is necessary.

2025 Tarkovsky Prize Honorable Mention: Jasper Brioza

Tampopo: Through the Back Door of the Kitchen

by Jasper Brioza

If you were to boil down life into one word it would be food. You eat food to live; it is with you while you're in the womb, and it will be with you as you sit on your deathbed, it is with you when you wake up, it is with you when you go to bed, it will always be with you, it is the one thing you cannot break away from, food is life.

One hot summer night in Kyoto, my family and I stumbled into a ramen place for dinner. The shop’s amazing interior was complemented by beautiful dark wood and moody dim lights. Unfortunately, the ramen they served was terrible; the broth was too thick and the noodles gummy. After tasting the ramen, we immediately decided to pay our bill, got on our bikes, and went back on the search for delicious ramen. Luckily enough, our friend, a local, had recommended a different place. The building was located in a dark alley, and as we entered, I noticed the peeling paint and bare lightbulbs, all completed with the chain smoking chef. The restaurant was bustling with customers and the ramen was exquisitely crafted.

Growing up amongst a family of chefs, my father often said, “The best way to know a culture is through the back door of the kitchen”. Tampopo, written and directed by Juzo Itami, brings you through the back door and shows you the idea that food transcends and infuses all parts of society. In this way, Tampopo is a film not just about food, but a reflection upon the traditions and changes in Japanese culture. Juzo conveys this through his stunningly curated set design, wardrobe, and of course the food.

From every small town up to all the prefectures of Japan, there is ramen. It is traditionally a working class meal; filling, fast to make, fast to eat, and cheap. What intrigues me is that there is still an incredible amount of ceremony around eating this simple dish. We see this in a story about a young man learning the art of eating ramen from his master. The old man studies the bowl, savoring the aromas, noticing each important ingredient, caressing the pork then moving it to the right side of the bowl and apologizing he says “See you soon.” In the background stately violin music gives a level of seriousness to what could be seen as a satirical scene. The extremely focused shots provide no distractions from the lesson. In a similar way it is common for a restaurant in Japan to only specialize in one type of dish, be it ramen, soba, tonkatsu, or udon.

While in Japan, I remember an old Chef saying, “the Japanese are the masters of singularity”. There are thousands of ramen shops, and every single one strives for the best quality food. In the opening scenes of Tampopo, Goro and Gun are truckers on their way to finish a job, they stop for ramen on a dark and stormy night. However, the only other customers seem to be local thugs who are harassing the owner, and after eating his ramen, Goro gets into a cinematic fight with them.

Bruised and bloodied Goro spends the night at the owner's house. At breakfast which consists of natto, rice, homemade pickles, and seaweed he learns that her name is Tampopo, and that she is not a trained chef, but was just copying her deceased husband's techniques. Goro and Gun then have to reluctantly break it to her that her ramen sucked. Before leaving they give her a short lesson on how to read the customers along with some tips for making ramen. As they pull away in their truck she runs after them begging for Goro to make her his disciple. This scene sets the stage for the entire movie; it acts as the catalyst for Tampopo’s pursuit of perfection.

Throughout the movie we see people come together from all walks of life, from a trucker, to a chauffeur, and even a retired doctor. Each one of these characters is on deck and plays an important role in the development of the restaurant. The broth is just as important as the noodle texture, each character brings something different to the table, in ramen and in restaurant ownership there can be no weak links, if one part does not hold the whole thing collapses.

In this essay I described the indescribable and tried to make you understand something that I do not understand myself. I feel a deep connection to this movie, something about its physical comedy, its accurate and emotional depictions of life and restaurants. I don't know if this is something that everybody feels or if it’s something personal to me. This movie has some sort of tangibility about it, like I could walk right into it and I would recognize it as home.

2025 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Caitlin Yoffie

Beau Travail: The War Within

by Caitlin Yoffie

Claire Denis’ Beau Travail, a loose adaptation of Herman Melville’s novel Billy Budd, Sailor, is an unconventional, artful take on a war film. The film is full of contradictions: order and freedom, beauty and violence, repression and desire. Stripped down to the essence of the novel, the film’s minimalist narrative is told through movement, rhythm, and striking visuals. Through these elements, Denis explores the complexity of masculinity, identity, and military life. Beau Travail isn’t just a war film, it’s an introspection on emotional isolation and the destructive side of repression.

The French Foreign Legionnaires are stationed in Djibouti, their bodies and minds shaped by the strict demands of the military. The unrelenting heat of the African desert mirrors the Legionnaires’ emotional desolation. The vast, dry, land reflects the inner emptiness of these men, especially Galoup, the film’s focus. The barren landscape is an extension of Galoup’s mind–his rigid obedience to military structure suppresses something inside of him, something that emerges as resentment toward Sentain, a young recruit whose easy proficiency in the strict system threatens Galoup’s fragile sense of control. Galoup’s emotional repression isn’t communicated through dialogue, but through his body, through the controlled, almost dance-like choreography of military drills. The physicality of the soldiers is both hypnotic and oppressive, representing the suffocating structure of military life. Denis captures masculinity not as an inherent strength, but as something trained into the body, something that can ultimately be destructive.

The film’s structure adds to the psychological depth. Beau Travail is told in a fragmented, diary-like narration from Galoup’s perspective, presenting memory as unreliable, and easily distorted by regret and resentment. The film moves smoothly between past and present, immersing us further in Galoup’s fragmented memories. This disjointed sort of storytelling reflects his unraveling inner state, allowing us to experience his world as he does–through his subjective recollections instead of a conventional narrative style.

Galoup’s resentment of Sentain is never explicitly explained, but every shot is full of suggestion. Sentain represents something Galoup can’t place–maybe freedom, youth, or an innocence that Galoup has lost. Or maybe it’s desire, changed into hatred by the repression that controls Galoup’s life. His need for control comes out in his harsh treatment of Sentain, ending in his decision to abandon him in the desert. This moment is extremely important, not because it’s dramatic, but because of how empty it feels. Galoup’s actions aren’t driven by logic, but by buried emotion. Ultimately, this emotional repression destroys not just Sentain, but Galoup himself.

Denis further defies a conventional war film arc by denying us an actual war. The film is centered around preparation–constant drills, training exercises, and military routines–but the war never comes. This sense of waiting reflects Galoup’s mind, as if both he and the audience are bracing for an inevitable explosion that never delivers. Instead, the battle is internal. It’s a slow breakdown of Galoup’s self. The absence of a war adds to the tension rather than subtracting from it. Instead of violence and explosions, we watch as Galoup quietly falls apart on the inside.

This collapse ends in an unforgettable final scene. Galoup, discharged from the Legion, is left with nothing–no rank, no purpose, no identity. The man who used to command soldiers is now powerless. “Unfit for life, unfit for civilian life,” he writes in his diary, marking the end of his life. Then, under the glittering lights of a nightclub, he dances.

This final dance, Galoup’s swan song, set to Corona’s Rhythm of the Night, is at the same time refreshing and tragic. Here, finally, Galoup moves with complete freedom, unbound from military order. His body, once stiff and restrained, now moves without control. His moment of release is also an ending. It’s as if in giving in to the emotions he’s suppressed for so long, there is nowhere left for him to go. The dance is a final, desperate act of expression before his inevitable end.

Denis created Beau Travail not as a typical war film, but as a personal examination of masculinity, identity, and emotional repression. The film hints that structures made to create order–whether it’s military discipline or the strict definitions of masculinity–can ultimately destroy the people they are imposed on. Galoup’s tragedy isn’t just that he is expelled from the Legion, but that he has never really known himself outside of it. He isn’t a hero or a villain, but something more complex: a man whose final act of freedom comes too late.

By the time Galoup dances, the audience recognizes what he can’t–freedom is only possible once one acknowledges desire, pain, and regret.

2025 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Marie-Fleur Delort-Brazee

An Analysis of Social Movement in Nights of Cabiria

by Marie-Fleur Delort-Brazee

The movie “Nights of Cabiria” by director Federico Fellini was published in 1957. Although the movie is lighthearted and funny, it discusses two important messages: social class and feminism at a time when Italy had just gone out of war and was suffering an economic depression.

I was startled by the obvious difference in social class presented in the movie, especially prominent in interactions between wealthy men and prostitutes. The wealthy are entertained by prostitutes and the prostitutes submit themselves to the wealthy. Although Cabiria is a prostitute, she doesn’t seem to care about this social separation. When she dances in a rather unsophisticated manner at an exclusive party, people around her seem amused by her. They do not consider her to be at their class level. The separation of people by their social class is a pattern often revisited in history. High social status is usually represented with arrogance and wealth, while lower classes are pictured as less sophisticated and desperate. In my opinion, when Cabiria is dancing freely and entirely differently from everyone else, it is such a brave behavior and marks her indifference to social class, but everyone around her seems to put so much importance to it. Although she does not live with the same privileges as the wealthy people at the party, she nevertheless continues to be herself and owns up to herself in an environment that is not welcoming her as an equal. Cabiria’s response to people around her is inspiring, because it is an encouragement towards keeping one’s values and character no matter what other people say or think. Fellini emphasizes the superficiality of social class in the scene where a very large crowd is praying in a church. There is a fast-changing perspective, in the cinematographic sense, with instances of people’s faces being captured vividly. The shots of the people praying build up to an overhead shot so that we, the audience, can see how all these people together look the same way and all either are desperate for something that they cannot have, mourn for their personal reasons, or live in their past regrets. All these people are in the church for the same reasons: to beg for forgiveness and ask God to change their lives. In this upper vision social class seems only like a human illusion as people cannot be distinguished based on their class. It felt uncomfortable watching the scene, seeing people so lost and who have nothing left in their lives, while praying, crying, and screaming in the church tent. Sometimes life seems so much more important than it actually is, and Fellini really helps us realize that we humans, although so lively and unique, are mostly just the same. Additionally, many people, especially in Italy at that time and other religious countries, turn to a greater force or God to see change, regardless of social class. I believe that Fellini sent a powerful message showing the ludicrousness of social class to him.

Federico Fellini's choice to work with his wife, Giulietta Masina, for this portrait of a strong and independent woman like Cabiria was a notable statement to me. It shows that feminism was taking shape in Italy after the war. Since Cabiria is a prostitute, it is difficult to believe that she could be a representation of feminism. But her behavior speaks for her actions. Repeatedly, Cabiria is diminished by people around her, especially men, who only see beauty and attitude in her. However, every time, she keeps reminding others, and perhaps even herself, that she bought her own house and has enough money to live a comfortable life, all of which she worked hard for. Cabiria is not impressed by men around her. Although she is seeking love and looking for the perfect man, whenever she meets someone, she never feels submissive to them. An example of this is when she meets Oscar D’Onofrio and he insists on driving her home at night. Even though it is late, she does not want to depend on a man, especially one she just met. That is an appearance of feminism, which feels empowering to me, because historically women were always portrayed as naive and dependent for needing men to survive financially and for protection. Cabiria clearly contradicts this idea. Therefore, when she decides to take the bus alone, even though it is a long ride, she clearly radiates her independence, proving Oscar that she will not just be impressed by his charming personality. The message of feminism takes a heavy turn at the end and makes it very upsetting. Cabiria finally opens up to Oscar and shows him her vulnerable side. When they are having dinner together, she insists on the difficulty of her job that made her money, which came from prostituting herself. She addresses an important social problem, insinuating that women underwent hardship to reach financial independence without the need of men, as known in modern society. Today, it is hard to imagine that women once were so suppressed by society. So, as a woman, it is an empowering scene in the film. As the audience builds up a feeling of happiness for Cabiria, the ending leaves a sting in the chest. After Oscar steals all of Cabiria’s money, and runs away, leaving her behind screaming “Kill me! Kill me!” I felt taken aback by the exhaustion of a strong and inspiring character like Cabiria. At such a moment, I thought that she would give up, but I was wrong. We see Cabiria slowly rising once again–devastated– but her facial expression shows a determination to keep on living. She is an unstoppable character. I believe that Federico Fellini must have chosen his wife to portray this role, as he saw her as a strong and independent woman, but also to inspire future generations to stay strong and empower women no matter the suppression by society.

I have not often felt so taken aback by a movie like Nights of Cabiria. The messages that are conveyed: social class and feminism, are loud and feel early for their time. Today, these themes are more eloquently addressed and people are trying to make a change. However, in 1957, in Italy, people fought these problems differently, making this moviealmost like a future reflection of modern society for people back then.

2025 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Blue Scott

Beau Travail: Transcending Body

by Blue Scott

Amongst an arid rocky landscape, the deep turquoise of an ocean, and the fever pitch of a blue sky, nestles the many bodies of Claire Denis’s Beau Travail.

The story follows Sergeant Galoup of the French Foreign Legion, a stoic, quiet man, who becomes obsessed with another young soldier, Gilles Sentain, and eventually breaks free from the oppressive eye of the Legion and their commander, Forestier. The story is a sordid one, adapted from Billy Bud by Herman Melville, turned into a modern tragedy unlike any other. The plot jumps back and forth in time, between the Legion while they were stationed in Djibouti, Africa and the reflections of Galoup in France years later. The film has minimal dialogue, carried by morsels of context provided through Galoup’s internal monologue; it relies entirely on the weight, function, and beauty of bodies.

The film follows a steady pace–from body to body, beginning with young women dancing under the busy lights of a club, continuing to soldiers doing yoga in the hot sand. These two scenes, practically back-to-back, strike a visceral chord; the dark, moody light of the club casting long shadows across feminine faces, replaced by raw masculinity undisguised in direct sunlight–It’s a cruel contrast, and while the soldiers twist and turn in their almost alien exercises, the camera pans over their every move, proceeding through the flexes of muscle and movement. There is no linear narrative structure established in these early scenes, and the expectation is shaken off by the use of in media res. What is established, however, is the devotion the camera has to bodies and their power to push onwards. Immediately, we are required to inhabit a world built on instinct and observation.

Due to Beau Travail’s intimate structure, there is an air of voyeurism in certain shots. This is felt especially during the exposition of the soldier’s training: the camera is close, lingering on one man after the other. It is focused on the minute ways in which each body goes about mounting their terrain, how their strength overcomes obstacles both internal and external. It is undeniable that while watching them you begin to feel a strange sort of invigoration—You can feel the strain in their legs and the burn in their lungs and the fire in their muscles. These men are at the height of physical ability, possessing strength that most will never experience and cannot even imagine. In watching them vault stone walls and crawl under barbed wire you can’t help but inhabit them for a moment, to fantasize, perhaps vainly, of what it must feel like to be so invincible. You forget what it’s like to be stagnant. You forget that these men are in the safety of training, and there is only a fine line between training and battle. You are reminded when not halfway through the film a training helicopter crashes in the sea and there is a long shot of a body hanging in the water, proving mortality. Perhaps some of Denis’s greatest triumphs in making Beau Travail: giving us the chance to transcend our bodies, and dragging us back with the reminder that all bodies can die. In turning the bodies from something readily inhabitable to distant and cold, we are awoken to the rest of the plot, and a strange sense of reality sets in.

That is also what makes Galoup’s character so tragic—he is taught the same lesson as us multiple times with consequences to match. Galoup transcends as well. It is his only option: under the watchful, oppressive eyes of Forestier, the symbol of the Legion, he is trapped. There are many long, aching scenes where Galoup stands at a great distance from his fellow soldiers, Forestier nearby as if to keep control of his body, to stifle any human movement. Galoup’s escape through transcendence is told through masterful editing. Early in the film, before the helicopter crash that bursts the ‘transcendent’ bubble (for the audience and perhaps for Galoup as well), the Legion traverses through late night partygoers in town, disappearing into a nightclub. Galoup, on the other hand, is left out, dressed in his uniform and walking alone in the streets, Forestier not far behind in a car. The scenes cut back and forth to each other, from dancing to quiet and back again, and it is conveyed that Galoup has found a way to dance with the other men, even if he can’t in his own body. The image is repeated as the soldiers return home, carrying one another through empty streets in the early morning. Galoup is not in his uniform but a black dancing outfit, an image from the future, and he walks with them waiting to dance again.

After the helicopter crash, Sentain becomes established as an antagonistic character to Galoup. Forestier bestows admiration and recognition to Sentain, and to Galoup’s repressed mind, this is an act of betrayal. This is the first instance in which Galoup finds he can’t transcend anymore—in his barracks, he tears his uniform jacket from his shoulders, throwing it down and collapsing to the bed. The complicit emptiness that allowed him to escape has been replaced by desire: a desire to be made better by the Legion like Sentain rather than oppressed, and perhaps a desire for Sentain himself. Here, the problem of defining exactly what Galoup feels about Sentain is encountered. It is steeped in hatred–but love and hatred are not all that different, and both require passion. It’s easy to see a certain homoerotic subtext in the way Galoup hates Sentain, the film won’t let us avoid it. It barrages us with endless moments of Galoup staring at the (usually half naked) man with undeniable desire. But I believe, more than anything, that Galoup simply wants to be Sentain. He doesn’t just want to transcend, he wants to take over, to own, to replace. The most striking scene in the film comes later on, after the Legion has moved into an arid plain between three volcanoes under the command of Galoup. Galoup and Sentain circle each other on a dark gravel beach, drawing closer and closer with each step, somehow fighting without touching, and for once we can definitively see the difference in the two men. Sentain is tall, broad-shouldered and angular. Galoup is short and mottled, his body as senewy as a rope. Both are beautiful. But we can feel the hatred Galoup feels for himself through the screen, and we know who has lost the fight.

Galoup faces his final lesson of reality near the end of the film. Sentain attempts to assist a fellow soldier in his punishment by providing water, and punches Galoup when he reprimands him. Galoup takes him out to the desert and leaves him there to walk back to camp as punishment–but he tampered with Sentain’s compass, and Sentain never returns, presumed dead in the salt flats or deserted. It is agonizing as we watch Sentain fade into the gray and white landscape, his body now made more useless than we are comfortable with. Justice comes as his compass is discovered amongst wares sold by a group of locals, confirming his disappearance, and Galoup is discharged from the Legion. We are provided privileged knowledge that Sentain actually was rescued, but there’s no weight to it. No one will ever know, and both Galoup and Sentain are lost either way.

Outside of the Legion, years later in France, Galoup has not shaken the repression of the Legion. France, in comparison with Djibouti, is a shimmering fog of a city. In Djibouti, Galoup was never alone; we, as the audience, were never alone, as the interspersed images of local women and men and children kept us company as they watched the Legion occupy their reality. In France, Galoup is solitary. Throughout the film, some glimpses of Galoup’s life in France are provided, but it never lingers long enough to dilute the astonishing body of Africa—the images slowly accumulate until we finally leave Africa behind in the past and see a full image of mundanity, of a diminutive life. It becomes apparent that even by himself Galoup feels watched by Forestier, and therefore by the Legion as a whole. His transcendence is stifled by his loneliness; he hasn’t found his way back into his own body. Galoup inhabits nothing, nobody. He exists through the habits he learned in the Legion. He cuts kindling from the tree outside his window with a machete. He irons his shirts with precision. He makes his bed military-style before lying across it with his gun.

“La mission est sacrée, tu l'exécutes jusqu'au bout et, s'il le faut, en opérations, au péril de ta vie. The mission is sacred, you carry it out until the end and, if necessary in the field, at the risk of your life.”

Galoup’s suicide at the end of the film is not shown. Instead, we watch as he lies on the bed, resting his gun on his stomach, just under his ribcage. The gun is harsh against his skin, and the focus is entirely on the life inside of his body versus the object that will end it. Then, we see his chest, where a faded tattoo in purple ink reads “Serve the good cause and die.” The camera traces the curve of Galoup’s bicep, his arm tucked under his head, and lands on a pulsing vein just before his bent elbow. There we stay, the jerking vein jumping underneath his skin, a free movement under the weight of oncoming violence.

The film concludes back in Africa. In the drowsy tinted lights of the nightclub that opened the film, Galoup is out of the glare of the sun. He is in his otherworldly black clothes. He is alone, but also surrounded by tiled mirrors. He sees himself reflected in them, and even smiles. The Rhythm of the Night plays at an astonishing volume. There is no one watching, and Galoup begins to dance. The dance breathes the same life into us as the soldiers’ training, but rather than feeding into our vanities and desires, it fills us with the opportunity of our own bodies. Perhaps Galoup has transcended into himself, or even past himself, blurring the lines of death, freedom, and the way bodies do “good work.”

2012 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Bailey Lewis Van

THE CONSTANT GARDENER

By Bailey Lewis Van

Fernando Meirelles’s The Constant Gardener is a political thriller starring Ralph Fiennes as a low ranking politician, Justin Quayle, searching for answers in the wake of the his wife’s murder. While searching, Justin discovers a pharmaceutical company testing potentially deadly AIDS treatments on impoverished Africans, leading him to conclude that the society his life is built around, and that he strongly believes in, is corrupt and that his wife was a casualty in the fight for the rights of the African people.

The Constant Gardener, unlike many films, has a non-linear timeline. This, at first, is very disorienting as there is no clear distinctions in the timeline: first they are together in Africa, then there is an explosion, then the two characters are just meeting and in the next shot she is pregnant. Although the cutting back in forth from past to present to future takes effort to follow and begins to break apart all that you have ever thought about time, it allows the viewer to collect details and make connections that Justin Quayle could not make, while seeing things in their original order. This technique adds a layer of depth and increases tension as Justin stumbles into something that we are just beginning to realize is dangerous.

Most of the film takes place in a village in Africa. This choice of setting may seem to some just another cliché drama: white people using devastating third-world conditions as an exotic backdrop to their sordid affairs. This film, however, is bound strongly to the abuse of citizens in third world countries. The Constant Gardener unlike many thrillers set in the exotic third world, actually says something about global politics. It makes the viewer think about the role of the “white saviors” and the liberties these saviors think they can take with the people they are saving. The logic being that as we (the white savior) are pouring time and resources into you (the people of the third world country) we have the right to take some liberties with your health for the betterment of mankind, which amounts a really sick, twisted racism, the idea of a master race. What makes this film so poignant is the revolting racism and dehumanization of an entire race of people.

This film is carried emotionally by the viewers’ curiosity and repulsion more than empathy for the actors. Justin Quayle, although interesting, does not create a very sympathetic character. The viewer may not be completely invested in him; they may not care if his wife was cheating on him with a doctor and how this affects him. The emotional arc of the film is centered on what they each learn about the evils being done to the people of Africa. In this sense the protagonist is not Justin Quayle, even though the film follows him. The protagonist is all of the Africans in this country being taken advantage of by pharmaceutical company which, because it feels like they are allowed to take something back—experiment on human beings as if they are rabbits in a lab.

Tessa, Justin Quayle’s wife, balances out Justin’s lack of screen charisma with her empathy. Tessa is another reason that Africa is not the exotic backdrop to a white man’s affair. A large part of what the viewer knows about Tessa is what he/she gleans from her interaction with the impoverished people in Africa and her reaction to Justin’s lack of empathy for the people she cares so much about.

The Constant Gardener is a film about abuse and empathy. The effect that the “white savior” has on the developing world and the horror of what they do to the people who stand in their way and, despite the confusing jump cuts and the lack of empathy in some of the characters the film conveys its message strongly and effectively.

2012 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Midori Chen

DOWN BY LAW

By Midori Chen

Machismo plays a heavy part in American culture, the image of “The True Man” being a gruff, detached “cool” guy. Those who conform to this archetype are careless with their loved ones, writing off all consequences with a “Whatever, man.” They are players who cannot settle into a stable relationship, refusing to talk about emotionally-charged topics, even degenerating to groundless accusations and irrational mockery. Jim Jarmusch’s Down By Law observes the outcome of those who surrender themselves to this ideal, as three men’s jailbreak lead their lives in different directions– or rather, in the directions they were each intended towards in the first place.

The “cool guy” personas are played by Jack, a disc jockey, and Zack, a pimp. They are both set up for the crimes that land them in the same New Orleans jail cell. They cannot stand each other; their alpha male personalities clash in the confined space as they each try to out perform the other. The only time they get along is when a new guy is tossed in their cell—an Italian named Bob—who is so utterly awkward and “uncool” that he provides Jack and Zach with something in common: how much he annoys them. Since exasperation is one of the few emotions “cool guys” can show, the two do so in abundance. However, Bob’s status rises when he gives Jack and Zach information on how to escape, and the three do, temporarily overjoyed in freedom and take the time to simply bask in their camaraderie. The thought of freedom releases Jack and Zach from their self-imposed prison of solitude and dispassion, as the three skip down a dank sewer, hooting and hollering together in glee. This is the only moment in which the two actually escape both the literal and figurative jail.

Once outside discord is quick to rise. It isn’t long before Jack and Zach are storming away from each other and leaving Bob behind to woefully recall his family, without shame, as Jack and Zach grumble in-macho-persona about the unfair circumstances of their arrest and each other’s idiocy. Once they become cold and starved, Jack and Zach are quick to return, waddling back to Bob’s warm fire, where they thaw under Bob’s improvised meal and affability.

The movie comes to a climax as Bob finds true love in a stranger: an Italian woman living alone in the Louisiana bayou. As Bob is unafraid to express his true sentiments, the woman instantly warms to him, leaving Jack and Zach, literally, outside in the cold waiting for Bob to rob the house of its food (as per the tradition of manly men). The woman’s hospitality allows the two men in for a glimpse at the new lovers’ open vulnerability with each other, as demonstrated in Bob and the woman’s slow dance, jolting and unrehearsed yet relentless, because they are willing to try for each other.

Jack and Zach, the apparent main characters, are now cast to the unfocused sidelines, crippled by their incapability to break out of their personas. As Jack and Zach take their leave in the final scene of the movie, they engage in a brief, teasing goodbye with each other, allowing no room for sentimentality or further investment in their characters beyond amusement and pity. They leave in opposite directions down plain dirt roads, backs to each other, backs to the warm house and genuine life Bob is building for himself. It leaves the audience sighing in exasperation, shaking their heads as they wonder, when will these boys grow up?

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: William Nakamura

LA HAINE

by William Nakamura

The film, La Haine (1995), by Matthieu Kassovitz, was a symbolic representation of oppression in the eyes of three teenage boys. The movie follows three culturally diverse friends from the projects of Paris over 24 hours. They go on many adventures expressing their bliss and frustration, until their unfortunate demise. With intricate techniques used to develop ominous, exciting, and saddening scenes, my thoughts lingered as I became engrossed in the film. I especially grew fond of the way Hubert composed himself while overcoming adversity.

Police brutality is portrayed the same in the film as it is currently. The riots in the film are similar to those of the riots following the murder of George Floyd; the hospitalization and eventual death of Abdel was similar to the murder of James Scurlock. When the cops were interrogating Said and Hubert, they roared racist remarks, hurled spit, and beat them all the while they made a rookie observe. Rage and disgust boiled from within me, watching the boys get tortured I thought to myself, “If I were that rookie, what would I do?” Do I stand up for what I know is right or do I live in fear of my superior? Though Said had encountered a nice cop in the film, I could not help but share the disgust Vinz had for the police of Paris; the people sworn to protect and uphold the law, only to turn around and enjoy the classist divide.

There is nothing more inspiring than to see, hear, and share someone's passion of increasing success. At the end of the film Vinz says, “It's about a society on its way down. And as it falls, it keeps telling itself: ‘So far so good... So far so good... So far so good.’ It's not how you fall that matters. It's how you land.” For days I pondered the meaning behind this quote to which I realized that no matter what happens, the poor suffer. In the film, Hubert, a black teen, is the only person with a clear determination to graduate out of an impoverished life. He had started his own boxing gym as he was determined to get out of the slum of Paris: “...I want out of the projects mama,” showing he felt there was more to life than poverty and oppression. His words were touching, the idea is homogeneous to many students’ aspirations at Lowell. The hustle-and- bustle is a lifestyle my peers and I have become accustomed to; the drive to become better than each other and more successful than our past. After his dialogue, the film panned to a billboard with the words ‘The World Is Yours’ signifying Hubert’s ambition to break free from classism, racism, and privation.

One of the main themes in the film is how the boys deal with racism and inequality. During an altercation between Vinz and Hubert, Vinz questioned, “If you know what's right and wrong? Why do you side with the assholes?” Hubert responded, “Who's the asshole? If you stayed in school, you'd know that hate breeds hate.” Hubert’s words encourage a high road approach to beating the system within the system. In society, to earn respect you must become a successful and wealthy person. Hubert’s view of racism is seen as an opportunity to improve the world. When Said said ‘thank you’ to the cop when asking for directions, Vinz clowned him. However, Said understood that they live in a classist society; he correlated the nice part of town to fair police and the poor part with mean cops. Said and Hubert’s reactions to inequality is akin to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ideologies. Dr. King believed in peaceful protests to gain inches in the political world and preached patience and hard work to gain equal rights, much like Said and Hubert.

In a warm light, the film reminded me of the nights my friends and I would go on bike rides. Their loyalty to each other is similar to my own, giving each other hard times along with happy times-- no one could ask for more. Said, Vinz, and Hubert crashed an art exhibition to pass time and have fun; much like my friends and I flew down hills at 40 miles per hour hollering with joy. Their mischievous activities lead to thrilling police chases which placed a smile on my face; they were having fun together. During the interaction with Snoopy, the boys are offered a line of coke and they repeatedly decline. When Snoopy’s jerk-like behavior enrages Vinz, the other two boys hold Vinz back making sure that he does not get into more trouble. As the boys were running from the cops for loitering in the abandoned mall, memories of running around the city filled my head. Their disregard of infraction combined with their ultimate momentary happiness create images of bliss in the eyes of the viewer.

The movie La Haine is a touching film that portrays a view of poverty nearly identical to the cruel reality today, with highlights of joy and lowlights of oppression. The film follows three boys from the rough parts of Paris as they go about their day performing acts of delinquency and overcoming unfair humanity. I strongly recommend this film because it touches on racial and classist inequality through a young person’s perspective.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Cheryl Chen

KLOPKA: Existing in the Gray

by Cheryl Chen

Srdan Golubovic’s Klopka explores the great lengths a person is willing to go to save their loved one. Unable to afford a life-saving surgery for his son, the protagonist, Mladen, is faced with an impossible dilemma: take another man’s life for money or watch his son die. When he chooses the former, he plunges into a trench of overwhelming guilt that ultimately destroys his life. Weaving elements of irony, psychological turmoil, and symbolism, Klopka guides its audience on an emotional journey where insights about morality, wealth, and human nature are revealed.

While watching the film, a recurrent question surfaced in my mind: what would I do if I were in the main character’s shoes? On one hand, would I have courage to abandon my moral values and kill another person who also had a family? On the other hand, would I be able to live with the guilt of allowing my child to die when there was an alternative option? The complexity of this constructed dilemma results in no definite right answer. They are both terrible choices. However, depending on an individual’s values, one choice may be slightly more favorable than the other. Some, who have experienced parenthood, may argue that the sacrifices and consequences from committing murder outweigh the pain of losing their child. Others may feel that murder is unjustified in any circumstance. Although I have come to the conclusion that I simply do not possess the conscience required to assassinate someone, I acknowledge the justifications for both sides and sympathize with Mladen. All in all, Klopka compelled me to assess my own moral values through the perspective of the protagonist.

This film also influenced me to reflect upon the divisions of wealth in society. People of low socioeconomic status are inherently disadvantaged. In the film, Mladen’s bleak situation is contrasted with backdrops of gaudy homes and luxurious items—most notable being an empty picture frame worth the same amount of money as the surgery. The comparison between the picture frame and his son’s life emphasizes how every life is not equal. Although we are all of the same species, social constructs like wealth play a significant role in determining one’s value and limitations in society. The tragedy that unraveled within the film could have been averted if a child’s survival was not tied to a hefty price tag. However, while Klopka comments on the importance of affluence in our money-oriented society, it also displays the dangers of attaching one’s worth solely on material wealth. The man who hired Mladen and falsely promised him money embodies this idea. These were actions of a desperate man who clearly wanted to cling onto his lavish home and status, despite owing an enormous amount of debt to a menacing mobster. Examining the influence of wealth, Klopka strikes a balance in exhibiting the power of money in our unequal society and the dangerous pursuit of it.

Furthermore, I particularly enjoyed how Klopka portrayed the duplicity of human nature. On multiple occasions, people doubted that Mladen could ever be involved in a crime as heinous as murder. For instance, upon hearing Mladen’s confession, the policeman dismissed his statements and believed he was mentally insane. Depicting the principal character as “the common man”, the film demonstrates that individuals who are fundamentally good can still be fallible. In other words, human beings can be just as flawed and immoral as the situations that are imposed on them. Coupled with the dreary coloring of the film, Klopka succeeds in illustrating the moral grayness in human nature. In addition, duplicity extends to the supporting characters as well, giving them multidimensionality. Mladen’s mysterious employer is actually a fearful, demoralized debtor while the dangerous mobster is also portrayed as a loving family man. This drives home the message that appearances are sometimes deceiving. Moreover, appearances control the assumptions that society makes, but it cannot fully captivate the complexities of human nature. Klopka’s unpredictable, yet grounded, story and character development subverted my expectations in every aspect.

As I stand on the verge of adulthood, I can imagine myself in the protagonist’s position. Gripping the steering wheel of the red Renault 4, I stare ahead to the diverging roads at the gloomy intersection. The street light flickers green, but I do not accelerate forward. Instead, I remain still on the driver’s seat, contemplating which road I should venture. Regardless of the avenue I choose, I can only hope that I do not lose my sense of direction.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Jessica Schott-Rosenfield

King Vidor’s THE CROWD

by Jessica Schott-Rosenfield

The Crowd is a 1928 silent drama directed by King Vidor, and regarded as one of the most influential films of its time. The Crowd chronicles the life of a man named John Sims, who loses his father at a young age. Sims sets out for New York City to become the man his father wanted him to be, but quickly learns that it is harder to make something of oneself than he had imagined. The viewer follows John through marriage, the birth of his children, and the hardships of daily life in a monotonous office job. Vidor utilizes foreshadowing, camera movement, and character development to illustrate John’s descent into the depressing reality of being only one among many.

The Crowd spends little time creating a false sense of security before passing on to scenes which foreshadow approaching disaster. One of the first scenes depicting John as a grown man is of him and his future wife, Mary, on their first date, riding a city bus. They notice a man dressed as a clown on the sidewalk, juggling to draw attention to the advertising board he wears around his neck. Both John and Mary ridicule him, saying, “look at the poor sop. I bet his father told him he’d be president one day.” By this point the viewer has witnessed John’s father tell him the same thing, and is clued in to the subtext in this dialogue. This scene foreshadows the conclusion of the film, which sees John take the very same job he once laughed at. Another instance in which anxiety is induced is shot on a cliffside by Niagara Falls. John and Mary are on their honeymoon, and have laid out a blanket on the slope. From the viewpoint of the audience, the slope looks incredibly steep and unsafe. While the couple shares a loving moment, the audience is preoccupied by how dangerous their position is. This manifests unease, and a nagging feeling that this relationship will soon be put to the test. In these instances of foreshadowing, Vidor makes clear to the viewer that John is destined for ruin.

Camera movement in this film is particularly notable because of the shots which zoom out from a frame with one person to a scene of dozens. These shots serve to highlight how slim John’s chances of making it big are, especially in a city with millions of citizens all trying to achieve the same thing. When he first lands his job as an accountant, the repetitive and dull nature of the workplace is emphasized with shots of hundreds of men all sitting at identical desks. At first, the viewer is only seeing the protagonist, and focuses solely on him, but when the camera zooms out, the viewer loses Sims in a sea of people who all look the same. When the lunch bell rings, every worker rushes across the room as one, their movements dictated by a clock and a herd mentality.

John’s character progresses further into deep denial throughout the film, as he constantly asserts that when his “ship comes in,” he will have a better life. The defining moment of his development comes after his youngest child has been hit by a truck. The child lies in bed, surrounded by her family, and John signals that everyone should stay quiet to give her peace. Outside, fire engines clang and a crowd rushes toward the scene of an accident. John opens the window to tell the crowd to be quiet, and is in such a state of disarray that he does not even close the window against the noise before going outside to attempt to silence them with a mere finger to his lips. This mindlessly illogical act shows how far John has fallen into depression, and how unprepared he was for the possibility of failure. Furthermore, the image of him standing in the midst of hundreds of people, powerless, illuminates the grand theme of inadequacy and hopelessness.

The final scene of the film sees a lift in John’s spirits, as he has gotten a job and rekindled a good relationship with his wife and son. The family sits in a packed movie theater, laughing, and the same camera zooms which are used early on in the film return. This time, the shot begins not as John alone, but with his loved ones, and zooms out to show the crowded audience which surrounds them, all overcome with laughter too. The parallelism displayed with the repetition of this shot conveys a bittersweet feeling. John is now happier than he once was, has found a kind of peace, but is still lost in the same mass of people. Perhaps the love of a family will keep him content, yet the final loss of the protagonist among an unidentifiable throng still evokes an air of melancholy.

The Crowd is the story of millions of people who lived the same way John Sims did, always waiting for the American dream to lift them up as they saw it happen in the media. Through foreshadowing, camera movement and character development, Vidor conveys the fear and shame felt by so many in the early 20th century, when they realized that not everyone would be the next great success story.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Katherine Song

LA STRADA: Unfortunately, It Didn’t Make Me Cry

by Katherine Song

There exists a saying in Italian: "Chi causa del suo mal, pianga se stesso", directly translated as "he who has caused his own pain cries to himself'1. In the movie La Strada, often credited to its director Federico Fellini, protagonist Gelsomina is sold off to a traveling strongman, Zampano, whose brutish and violent behavior contrasts with Gelsomina's kind and innocent personality. They travel along the Italian countryside, putting on shows, until they come across II Matto, a talented tightrope walker, whose provocative actions eventually lead to his death at the hands of Zampano. Gelsomina, tom up by II Matto's death, becomes withdrawn and Zampano eventually leaves her behind by the shoreline, but when he comes back to see her years later, he is greeted by the knowledge of her death, ending the movie's final scene as he cries by the sea. Indeed, he who has caused his own pain—Zampano, by killing II Matto and causing Gelsomina's grief, only for her to die from it—only has himself to cry to, having lost the one person willing to stay by his side. To a modern audience, well familiar with atrocities and tragedy on a daily basis, La Strada does not evoke the same sense of grief as it would to its audience during its release. However, I found the development and the end the three main characters come to ultimately tragic, giving La Strada its bittersweet emotions transcending time.

II Matto, The Fool, is the first to die, whose end is tragic because of its abruptness. When he finally stands, having had his head bashed by Zampano (his death banishing from the world the talent Zampano sorely lacks) he comments on how his watch is broken, before stumbling away and collapsing. He gets no final dramatic last words, no words of wisdom to pass on—it seems as if he himself does not realize his impending death. Furthermore, his death is meaningless: even Zampano himself calls it an accident, which does not absolve him of any guilt nor responsibility for snuffing out a life, but an accident nonetheless. If enough effort is put in, anyone could blame The Fool's death on himself; if he hadn't provoked Zampano so, he may have never been caught up in his temper. But that would be a hypothetical and justifying murder, which is impossible considering II Matto's actions never surpassed simple pranks. No one gains anything from his death, and considering how he may have been the most likeable character thus far, it really does give one the impression that his death could've and should've been avoided—instead of burning to ashes. And more on how likeable II Matto was; when introduced, he's a direct parallel to Zampano. II Matto is witty, talented at what he does in the circus, and has a friendly relationship with his assistant. On the contrary, Zampano is brutish, quite stupid, and treats Gelsomina as a wife he's all too eager to cheat on and beat on. Because of Zampano's lackluster performances and appalling behavior thus far, II Matto appears to shine the moment he enters the stage. II Matto is also quick to encourage Gelsomina to learn the trumpet Zampano prohibited her from learning, and cheers her up by imparting upon her that, "I don't know for what that stone is good, but it has got its function. Or everything would be meaningless. Even the stars." He tells Gelsomina that she is needed, that she has a purpose, and that is far more gentle and encouraging than Zampano has ever been, forcing one to root for II Matto. And then he dies at the very hand of the person anyone would be cheering for Gelsomina to run away from. If it is any consolation, II Matto appears to be the only character unshackled by circumstance, who remains in control of his life even as Zampano has it in his hands. "Dal riso molto conosci stolto." A fool is ever laughing.

Gelsomina dies not long after II Matto does, whose final, broken down moments remain heartbreaking. It's hard seeing someone like her, who has eventually come out of every conflict smiling and optimistic, finally break down and lose what made her so likeable and persevering even in the face of adversity. Throughout the film, we're introduced to how she is able to move on from every issue in her life with a strength amplified by her optimistic and kind but naive nature. When she's sold off by her own family for ten thousand livres, she eventually moves on from them while waving and putting on a smile, before seeming to forget about it. When Zampano hits and mistreats her, she always eventually comes back, even as her audience pleads for her not to. Her breaking point, however, is when Zampano kills the one person who encourages her, II Matto. This is prevalent especially because prior to her being sold off, she shows no such grief for her sister Rosa's death. To have suffered such abuse throughout a lifetime, and yet the death of the one person who left a kind imprint on her leads to her own passing—how tragic a heroine. It's interesting to note how during his death, she doesn't quite acknowledge the words verbally. She says, "He feels bad." Not "he's dead." Not "you have killed him." By using such limited vocabulary with none of the bluntness, Gelsomina comes across as childishly naive, unable to express the truth she knows: that he's dead and never coming back. As she breaks down, she repeats, "II Matto, he feels bad." As the audience, we aren't even privy to her final moments; we see Zampano leave her behind as she sleeps, with only a blanket and a trumpet for company, and come back to news of her death years later. We aren't given the opportunity to process the loss of our protagonist. But then again, neither is Zampano, which brings us to our final character.

Zampano, unlike the others, survives but creates his own devastating ending—he isn't given the chance to develop, and only seems to understand his own cruelty after it's far too late. He resembles a child, a huge one with only the ability to destroy and not create, leaving behind him a trail of regret. He has no talents but brute strength, repeating his same show while stuck in a loop of inferiority. He prohibits Gelsomina from learning the trumpet to hold her back, and to every person he comes across he takes credit from Gelsomina by proclaiming that he "taught her everything." Zampano is, in my opinion, unredeemable with no qualities that can explain why Gelsomina chose to stay with him. He is unintelligent, far from creative, and will leave to sleep with other women right in front of Gelsomina, neglecting her completely. However, he calls her his wife despite having no intention of truly getting married and when she runs away, chases her down and beats her. He is selfish, choosing to steal from the nuns after being shown kindness, and at the very end when the bartender tries to help him from drinking himself into a stupor, he responds violently and angrily. He is the very image of a villain, and just as we start to see him take care of Gelsomina that implies he thinks of her as more than a plaything, he reverts right back as soon as she starts to show signs of improvement. And when he sees she will not, he abandons her. This cowardice, his inability to continue staying with Gelsomina as she did for him, reveals his true nature. At the end of the movie, we see he hasn't changed at all. But when he breaks down and cries after Gelsomina's death is revealed, we start to see the slightest bit of humanity in him, gained far too late. How many Zampanos are there in the world, hurting others until they come to realization? How many never learn their faults? This is something I don't think I want to know.

In some way, each character leads to the downfall of another. II Matto is directly killed by Zampano due to his aggravation of the latter. Gelsomina dies from the shock and grief of II Matto's death—and while it can be arguable considering Zampano manipulated and mistreated Gelsomina far before II Matto's death, it is his death that becomes the catalyst for her breaking down. And Gelsomina's death gives Zampano his long overdue grief at the end of the movie by the sea, with no one to comfort him or respond to him. It's practically impossible to feel sympathy for him, with his own actions having led to these consequences, but he remains a tragic figure nonetheless. None of three main characters get a happy ending, which is sadly reflective of reality. La strada, translated as "the road", is the path these three characters take, intertwining for one brief moment before separating and terminating.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Isabella Wong

LA STRADA: The Tragedy of Human Nature

by Isabella Wong

I didn’t have high expectations when I entered the Kast party to watch La Strada. The trailer for Federico Fellini’s 1954 Italian drama film didn’t strike me as very promising, but I decided to watch it with an open mind. La Strada follows the naive and peppy protagonist Gelsomina, who was sold by her family to a street performer, Zampano. The pair go on to perform circus acts all over Italy before formally joining a circus, where they meet the tightrope walker, Il Matto. Unfortunately, each of these three characters meet a tragic end, with Il Matto dying at the hands of Zampano, and Gelsomina following soon after, leaving Zampano to wallow in his misery alone. Although the trailer depicts La Strada in a positive and even cheerful light, the film had more than its fair share of gloomy scenes. Nonetheless, Fellini’s La Strada illustrates human nature in its raw form and shows how human nature led to the tragedies of Zampano, Gelsomina, and Il Matto.

Zampano’s character is the epitome of brutality and pride. He is narcissistic, egotistical, and motivated completely by self-interest. Throughout the film, even though I expected that Zampano would treat Gelsomina roughly, I never expected that he would actually abuse her and was continuously taken aback each time he did so. Unlike Gelsomina, who is naturally talented at many things, Zampano’s only trick is one that he performs over and over again, like a one trick pony. Thus, his strong sense of pride and need for validation causes him to prevent Gelsomina from learning things from people who aren’t him in order to validate his fragile masculinity. Zampano shows no remorse for his actions and will gladly take advantage of people’s kindness in order to benefit himself, as he attempted to steal from the nuns who offered him shelter. In the end, it was Zampano’s pridefulness that led to his downfall. Zampano’s character realistically depicted some common ways people today cope with their problems: alchohol and sex. Like many people, Zampano recognized his faults, yet was unable to mature and let go of his anger as he spiraled down a path of self-destruction. This sparked a chain of reactions where his accidental murder of Il Matto caused Gelsomina’s emotional breakdown and eventual death. To my dismay, Zampano only showed signs of character development at the very end of the movie, when he realizes that he was the cause of Gelsomina’s death. Zampano’s tragedy was that he realized his mistakes too late and was unable to reflect on them and treat Gelsomina right while she was still alive.

In contrast to Zampano’s rough characterization, Gelsomina’s peppy yet naive personality causes her eventual downfall. Gelsomina’s optimistic outlook on life causes her to stay by Zampano’s side, in spite of the abuse she endures from him. Gelsomina falls in love with Zampano and can’t help but be tied down to him because of her devotion. Over the course of the film, Gelsomina is presented countless opportunities to leave and run away from Zampano, and even succeeded in one attempt before Zampano found her and beat her. Overall, it was Gelsomina’s mentality of being tied down to her abuser that reminds me of that of a victim who stays in an abusive relationship solely because they love their abuser. As a result, Gelsomina became submissive to Zampano and mostly followed his orders without question, unless it went against her morals. That is, until Zampano kills Il Matto, albeit accidentally. Il Matto was Gelsomina’s largest source of emotional support and encouragement when she struggled with fighting for Zampano’s affection. Thus, his death served as the catalyst for both her physical and mental breakdown, leading to her eventual death at the end of the film. In various scenes, Gelsomina can be seen repeating, “Il Matto, he feels bad,” over and over again, as if it was the only thing she could say. Following Il Matto’s death, besides being shaken, Gelsomina feared Zampano in a way that was different from her fear every time he beat her. However, in one scene, Gelsomina’s attitude completely changed from her dreary, worn-out self back to her peppy, optimistic self. To me, this showed that Gelsomina finally came to terms with the fact that the man she loved killed the only friend who encouraged and cheered for her through tough times. However, it’s this change that also made me pity her because it signified how Gelsomina coped with the death of her friend by ultimately giving up on life. Unable to move on from Il Matto’s death and her feelings for Zampano, the viewer finds out at the very end of the movie that Gelsomina lived out the rest of her days with a welcoming family, before succumbing to death. Compared to Zampano, who couldn’t help but lead a self-destructive lifestyle, Gelsomina was someone who couldn’t help but follow her heart, even though it ended up hurting her.

Unlike Gelsomina and Zampano, Il Matto is a free spirited and reckless character, who is by far my favorite character from La Strada. He and Zampano frequently butt heads throughout the film and is often the cause and provocation of their fights. Il Matto, free spirited as he is, is a character that I thoroughly enjoyed watching through his interactions with Gelsomina. Il Matto’s character is one that is easily likeable because of his playful and reckless behavior. One of my favorite scenes from this movie is Il Matto’s gentle encouragement to Gelsomina where he tells her, “I don't know for what that stone is good, but it has got its function. Or everything would be meaningless. Even the stars.” It was this that gave Gelsomina strength in the face of adversity and allowed her to continue striving for Zampano’s affection. Unfortunately, it’s Il Matto’s free spirited, does-whatever-he-wants nature that ultimately leads him to take Zampano’s temper too lightly, and provoke him too far. Il Matto’s death was one that I personally believe is a waste because both the viewer, and Il Matto himself never expected Zampano to go that far. Il Matto’s life was tragically, albeit wastefully, cut short. However, what sets him apart from Zampano, who was bound to his problems, and Gelsomina, who was bound to Zampano, was that Il Matto was only bound to himself.

In the end, Fellini captures human nature as we feel and experience it, something that is innate and often controls us until the very end. Now as I reflect on La Strada through this reaction essay, I’m able to appreciate Fellini’s portrayal of a small moment in time where the loves and dreams of the main characters were never realized. A famous Italian proverb says, “Il tempo passa e non ritorna,” or time passes and does not return. Just as how the time Zampano spent with Gelsomina will never return, Zampano filled up the rest of his days with regret over being unable to cherish her properly. La Strada, emotionally exhausting as it is, teaches us to appreciate those in our life while they’re still here. For now, I think I’ll start with reminding my friends and family with how much I appreciate them.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Erica Paschke

Poverty’s Cyclical Melancholy in KILLER OF SHEEP

by Erica Paschke

Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep (created in 1977 but released in 2007 is a narrative depicting the struggle of the working class through seemingly modest scenes of everyday life. During the time that Burnett was working on this film, many other students at UCLA, Burnett’s university, were simultaneously creating films about the working class. However, the majority of Burnett’s peers were out of touch with the struggles the working class faced. Their films were a romanticized version of the blue-collar life he knew. This inspired Burnett to use his personal experiences and knowledge of the Watts district of Los Angeles to show a realistic depiction of what was going on just miles away from the wealthy community of UCLA. His film is shot through the lens of the protagonist, a simple and hard-working man named Stan. It portrays the lack of respite for a worker who spends 8 hours a day killing, washing, and packaging sheep.

Stan’s personal life seems to never escape the monotony of the slaughterhouse. Every dynamic he has is influenced by the fact that he has to go back to the factory. Stan exchanges few words in this film, often he is seen sitting in silence- disconnected from the community around him. He and his wife’s relationship has disappeared, he no longer properly connects with his friends, and the only thing stopping him from killing himself is his young daughter who is the only source of his few smiles. Despite the apathy he feels for his life, Stan holds on to his ambition of happiness, which is seen through him still attempting to do ‘fun’ things such as the day trip to the country. However, his attempts inevitably fail and lead him deeper and deeper into the pit of melancholy. Stan seems to only find beauty in simple moments of daily life- whether it be embracing of his daughter or the warmth of a coffee cup. The film does not sugarcoat his situation or show a remarkable change in his disposition, it is simply a representation of the blue-collar life.

Burnett uses sheep in the film to represent the cyclical nature of life. No matter how many sheep Stan kills, there is always another one to slaughter, just as there is always another tragedy to overcome. This process in turn brings recurring pain which in some cases becomes too much for the workers to handle. Stan’s poverty cuts him off from the opportunities and freedom a higher wealth bracket would afford. To him, life goes nowhere, just as the movie goes nowhere. His attempts to move his life represent the larger struggle of working-class individuals in their constant need to overcome. An example of this is shown in the film when Stan becomes briefly motivated and attempts to buy a new motor for his car. This scene is one of the longest in the film: representing the interminable path to happiness many find themselves in. When he finally obtains the motor, it is placed in the back of their truck and as soon as they start to drive it falls out onto the pavement. The motor breaks and Stan says nothing as he is hit with the realization that the pain in his life will always outweigh the joy.

Even though the film was shot in 1977, Burnett chose not to film in color. The use of seemingly junky black and white pictures gives the impression that Stan and those around him are stuck in a monotonous past. Color also brings ardor and vibrancy so the film’s lack of it gives the audience a dulling sense of torpidity. This lethargy matches the lack of action within the film. It reaffirms that these are their lives and that they will never change.

Killer of Sheep is not a fast-paced movie brimming with action. Burnett created a simple plot without a glorified happy ending to illustrate his point. The point of the film is to accurately portray the struggles faced by individuals below the poverty line. Stan’s character shows how a lack of choice in life often leads to an inability to find meaning. His limited opportunities are cyclical in nature and lead to a decline in psyche along with a sense of being trapped. Killer of Sheep manages to tell many people’s stories through the lens of one man. Burnett uses Stan’s difficulties to embody those of a disheartened and impoverished working class.

2021 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Marvin Chen

Separated By Thousands of Miles in THE FAREWELL

by Marvin Chen

Lulu Wang’s The Farewell is a poignant depiction of a universal human experience –– the loss of a loved one. However, as a first-generation Chinese American, I recognize the unique take Wang was trying to convey from the start: the family dynamics and seemingly having a foot in two worlds. The film explores the story of Billi, a Chinese American writer from New York, and her Nai Nai (paternal grandmother) who is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. The family chooses to conceal the diagnosis from Nai Nai and calls for a farewell masked as a wedding, a ruse that Billi fundamentally disagrees with and struggles to maintain. As the family turned actors reunite in Changchun, China, different attitudes toward death and dueling personalities set up the backdrop for a comedy that ultimately has somber undertones. “Based on an actual lie” (as marketed), The Farewell highlights the dichotomy between Western and Eastern culture; a separation within a cross-cultural family that stretches thousands of miles and spans cultures, generations and distance, all framed in the context of a riveting visual story that uses dialogue, symbolism and imagery to a masterful effect.

Wang’s juxtaposition of Western and Eastern culture through family dialogues emphasizes the cultural barriers that exist within a cross-cultural family. The conversation at the family dinner was all too familiar, with the uncles and aunts and cousins you haven’t seen in ages seated at a round table, though the topic is centered more on academic performance for me personally. In Billi’s case, her family compares job opportunities between the United States and China. In a Chinese household, material wealth is an indicator of success, yet American values accentuate self accomplishments. A few testy exchanges prompt Billi to conclude the conversation by emphasizing how America is just different from China, not necessarily better. The dialogue used was authentic, spoken in fluent Mandarin and with cultural fluency. Even the subtitles, dare I say it, were proficient.

Billi’s usage of Mandarin and English added to the authenticity as Billi has a noticeable accent and needs her parents to translate certain phrases, a characterization that befits a Chinese American who has not had to use Mandarin in her daily life. Since the main character is Billi, her representation in the film through her dialogue is a living embodiment of the cultural barriers that exist between East and West. In the hospital scene, while dealing with her grandmother’s incessant matchmaking, Billi speaks in English to communicate with the doctor so Nai Nai does not understand the severity of her sickness. The doctor’s rationale that this may extend the longevity of someone diagnosed with a terminal illness because it keeps them in a positive mood baffles Billi, somebody who was raised in the West and thinks her grandmother deserves the truth.

In the hotel smoking scene, Billi, along with her father and uncle, discuss the ethics behind the decision to continue with “the good lie”. Both her father and uncle say in a determined tone that it is better for Nai Nai to live without worries, as she should leave the worries to the younger generations. Her uncle offers some clear insight: “You think one’s life belongs to oneself. But that’s the difference between the East and the West. In the East, a person's life is part of a whole. Family. Society ... We’re not telling Nai Nai because it’s our duty to carry this emotional burden for her.” The lines were delivered powerfully, leaving Billi speechless. The silence or lack of dialogue makes the message even more potent. This stark contrast between collectivism and individualism is perhaps the strongest cultural difference between the East and the West; the whole film is predicated on not letting Nai Nai confront her mortality alone. Through authentic and engaging dialogue, Wang crafts a highly recognizable story of somebody who exists within two cultures and the conflict accompanying it, something that I personally relate to.

Symbolism is used in the film to establish connections between characters and their emotions that are given form in the physical realm. There is a dark-colored bird that appears at the beginning in New York and reappears at the very end in Changchun. The bird personifies the connection Billi has with her family in China, particularly Nai Nai. The strength of that bond is evident as the film starts with Billi speaking with Nai Nai, and it is fitting Billi grunts just like her grandmother taught her, causing the same type of birds to take off near Nai Nai’s home, an entire continent away. You get the sense that no matter what happens, Billi’s love for her grandmother remains strong and vice versa. Another symbolic scene is when Billi plays the piano in China. At first, the musical piece appears to embellish the atmosphere of the family gathering, showing Billi’s restraint and grasp over her emotions. However, from the facial expressions and the intensity of her finger smashing that soon follows, it instead shows how frustrated she is. The cacophony of her music is a symbol of the anger and guilt that plagues her for agreeing to lie; even after traveling great distances, she cannot tell Nai Nai the secret. The symbols in the film allow the audience to gauge each character’s mood and make it more relatable to viewers who may not be familiar with the culture, a technique that enhances the universal appeal of the story.

Wang’s use of strong imagery is what makes the film memorable and there are some notable uses that illustrate a generational gap for different purposes. When the family goes to pay respect to their grandfather, everyone contributes some effort in placing foods such as bread, cookies, and fruits. Through the cemetery setting and bright colors of the cinematography, the audience can immerse themselves into the scene and feel the liveliness, allowing viewers a window into a possibly unfamiliar culture. The generational divide is apparent when Billi’s father “offers” a cigarette to his father by burning it (The Chinese believed burning material goods allows them to send the object to the deceased), much to the chastity of his mother, Nai Nai. Funny gaffes like this exist through the film, and paired with the unique shots and decor, the film’s genre as a comedy is reflected well. A more serious example is when Billi and her mom were looking for Aiko’s earring and had a discussion over their family’s decision to move to America long ago. As Billi starts to get emotional and reminisce about her childhood in China, her mother sits on the couch and lectures her over dwelling on the past. Despite them being at a “happy” wedding, pink and white balloons draped in the background, it is a feeling of sadness and bitterness between mother and daughter as they prepare for the wedding and the final day of deceiving Nai Nai. The imagery thus serves as the ultimate tool to set the mood according to the plot, where even cemetery scenes can be light-hearted gaffes and balloons with a wedding create a gloomy atmosphere.

As a Chinese American with family members still residing in China, I empathize with many scenes in this film because of my similar experiences. Separated by thousands of miles is a physical barrier, a generational barrier, a cultural barrier. But it can be overcome. The film has the power to evoke strong feelings and reminds me that crying and sadness are just as contagious as laughter and happiness. The farewell scene calls to me the most. I was in the exact position as Billi, sitting in the back seat of the car headed to the airport and watching my grandparents wave goodbye as their figures gradually became smaller and smaller. The camerawork for this particular scene is remarkable, following the point of view through the eyes of Billi and letting the viewer see through her from the rear window. The score for the scene is “Come Healing”, a fitting song that expresses the love Billi has for Nai Nai. Wang does an incredible job showing the implications of this farewell: it may very well be the last time Billi sees Nai Nai. It is a sobering part of life that anyone could relate to and is a testament to the appeal of Wang’s story. But just like Billi, I would ultimately choose not to tell. I might play along with any lies, just to see my grandparents smiling. I take solace in the fact that farewell in Chinese means see you again.

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Lucas Neumeyer

THE CONFORMIST by Lucas Neumeyer, 17 
2016 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place

There are two movies fighting for attention in The Conformist. These two stories diverge and intersect throughout the narrative creating a feeling of unbalance and confusion. One is a cold drama documenting a man’s insecurity and failures. The other can be described as a convoluted and tragic love story focusing on how uncomfortable a lonely man is around extroverted people and how lost he is confronting his own bottled up passion. This conflict occurs in the head of a man who has ideas of self-fulfillment and happiness, but has trouble achieving them when his ambition battles with his conscience. It frames a story of inner exploration and outer isolation during a period of political turmoil and reform. It is a story that can reignite the emotional core of anyone who has felt confused for even a small portion of their lives.

It is not surprising that a story as binary as this one is set in two locations. On the one hand, we have Rome where the heart of fascism has the appearance of archaic buildings and stern stone columns. On the other hand, we have Paris: The intersection of art and culture. The Conformist is set during the build up and fallout of the second world war, both a time of civil unrest. It is of significance to note that the film was released in Italy in 1970, also a time of civil unrest. The Italian Socialist Party and the Christian Democrats were at odds with one another; strikes and acts of terrorism were rampant. Vulnerable people were scooped by these political agendas and student protests were at their height. Events such as those occurring in Italy at the time and May 1968 in France are to be kept in mind as Bertolucci tells the story of a meek man coerced into acts of violence on behalf of a central political party and his own personal conflict. The political ideas are really rather prescient: it ends with an assassination that serves to burn bridges and create ruin several years before Italian President Aldo Moro was murdered.

Looking beyond the politics and symbolism, The Conformist is simply a gorgeous film. It is remarkable how Bertolucci and his director of photography Vittorio Storaro rely on expressionistic, unrestrained, completely illogical imagery to express the emotions onscreen. The images range from a photo of Laurel and Hardy appearing when Marcello is embarrassed, to the background changing colors during a sex scene. This method of imagery highlights the theme of duality and brings it to the surface of the film. The film starts with Marcello lying in a hotel bed rubbing his brow with discontent. The neon sign outside supplies a malicious red across the room as the darkness ebbs and flows. This feeling of rocking back and forth is repeated a few times in the film. We see it when Marcello is pacing in front of a window in and out of darkness as radio entertainers behind slide in and out of frame, or during the fight in a restaurant kitchen where the overhead lamp swings, illuminating and darkening the room. This sense of pendulum is given significance when Bertolucci splits the frame apart. As Marcello leaves the hotel and waits for the car, the edge of the building takes up half of the screen, and when he is in the car the camera is placed in a manner that allows the windshield wiper to be laid right across his face. The imagery helps to emphasize Marcello is always confused and worried: he rocks back and forth between the opposing forces that struggle in his conscience.

Marcello’s struggle to either conform to a higher power or lead an unfulfilling life is reminiscent of the classic premise of existentialism. The appeal of fascism and a higher order is a promise of prosperity and normality, but also a path of lack of responsibility. Existentialism is all about the freedom of choice allotted to humans by life, and how those who deny this freedom are living in “Bad Faith”. Marcello doesn’t have any qualms about living in Bad Faith, he is simply searching for normality and relief. We can assume his quest for ordinariness derives from his extraordinary childhood. Having a near sexual encounter with a pedophile and shooting him are not what he considers ordinary. Neither is having a morphine-addicted mother or father committed to an insane asylum for political murders. Marcello clearly has a strong reaction to a traumatic childhood experience and suppressing his true feelings. He married Giulia because he assumed she was complacent and normal, “A mound of petty ideas. Full of petty ambitions.”.  He even gets visibly embarrassed when his mother calls him “an angel”. 

Marcello’s attempt to distance himself from this type of absurdity is reminiscent of Sartre’s ideas: God gave us morals and purpose, without them there is no way to gage what is right, wrong, normal, or absurd without a reference point. The film points out this absurdity when it cuts away to humorous details such as the maid stealing a piece of spaghetti from the bowl with her mouth, or a boy practicing somersaults with a harness, his mother in a bed of puppies, or Guilia overenthusiastically cranking a mimeograph machine. As a result, Marcello who can’t stand this confusing, free-for-all world hides in the comfort of normality that Fascism appears to offer. For him, fascism is like the church, where he could follow rules and not have to worry, right? Not exactly.

What little we see of God in this film, we perceive as not very influential. Marcello only attends his confession because it is mandatory for the wedding, and finds himself quickly blessed when he reveals the party he belongs to even though he’s just confessed to murder. Bad Faith is not only reflected in Marcello’s relationship with the church, but also in Marcello’s attempt to avoid any regrettable decision. He can’t handle the task to murder his college mentor Quadri in cold blood, or continue to live his confusing unhappy life. This is exacerbated by the fact that Marcello falls in love with his mentor’s wife Anna. He experiences this dilemma like another existentialist theme, “I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations — one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it — you will regret both.” Marcello’s dilemma is like that of many people: always regretting what could’ve happened. He tries to achieve a middle path by indirectly setting up the ambush outside Quadri’s country house, but trying to prevent his wife from joining him. This inability to commit only leaves him with the consequences of both actions: an unhappy life with a guilty conscience.

Bertolucci provides a view into what happens when one’s life is devoid of agency: Isolation. A major theme in The Conformist is Marcello being singled out and isolated. It comes across in several details, such as his sitting in the back of the car as Manganiello drives, or sitting at the head of the dinner table while the two women in his life chat with each other. He can portray the feeling of loneliness that detaches him from other people, even while they’re in the room. One of the most memorable scenes is during a dancehall sequence when all the dancers form a gigantic circle around Marcello and smother him with their zealousness. This is also made clear in the images of Marcello behind glass; there is a tangible divide between him and the rest of the world.  He can see the other side of the glass in the recording station, and all the extravagant and happy singers, but he is isolated. This image of Marcello behind glass is repeated for the coldest scene in the film: When her husband is murdered, Anna is chased by men and begs Marcello frantically to let her in the car, but he just stares back behind cool glass as she pounds on the window and runs off. This distance has tragic repercussions, as the fascists prove to be the wrong horse to back in the mid 40s.

Marcello begins to isolate himself from everyone he knows: he has a distant and emotionless marriage with Giulia, accuses his blind friend Italo for his own crimes of fascism and murder. The final frame consists of a close up of him sitting at a bench from behind, with metallic bars between him and the camera. His actions have finally caught up with him, and all he can do is ponder. At least until he looks into the camera, at us, with sad eyes. It is here where the man he becomes is fully formed: a prisoner trapped by his guilt and our screen.

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Lilo Bergensten Oliv

Isolation and Unfamiliarity in Apocalypse Now

by Lilo Bergensten Oliv (Lowell)

I watched Apocalypse Now for the first time, ten days into a citywide shelter-in-place order and about a month into what Twitter was calling the end of the world. I hadn’t spoken to anyone outside my family in almost two weeks, my sleep schedule was abandoned entirely, and my list of activities to occupy myself with was becoming so short that I decided to get a start on an English assignment. So it was about ten at night when I started watching, and almost one by the time I reached the last minutes of the film. After nearly three hours of machine gun fire, helicopter blades, “Ride of The Valkyries”, and the Rolling Stones, the closing shot was quiet and placid – just a figure on a boat on a river, the quiet murmur of an FM radio and the lapping of waves.

Francis Ford Coppola’s Vietnam war epic is a gut punch, a smoke grenade, a spray of swamp water straight to the face. It is overflowing with color and sound and emotion and vitriol, packed with nuances and messages. But the interpretation that lends itself most easily to the viewer is the one that feels most relevant in the moment, and so the concepts that struck me the most, sitting in the living room alone, watching the closing screen fade to scrolling credits with bleary eyes, were isolation and unfamiliarity. In Apocalypse Now, protagonist Captain Jack Willard is pushed to his physical and mental limits, forced by the carnage and complexity of his mission to meet moral crisis after moral crisis and explore the question that I myself am now asking: what does the human mind do when shoved into the unknown, when left to contemplate its surroundings, its own choices? What does it reach for to calm itself? Unfortunately for Willard, the answers are difficult to find, but the film nevertheless explores them through the actions of its characters and its use of cinematography.

A moment at the beginning of the film places Willard on a beach with a Colonel who is meant to show him to the boat he will be using on his assignment. The Colonel is electric and unflappable and capable of shouting out orders with a cigarette in his mouth, a thoroughly Californian military man with a passion for surfing. As rockets and grenades rain down on the shore, the Colonel tells the soldiers around him to try the waves, which he insists are excellent. When met by reluctance, he yells “If I say it’s safe to surf this beach, Captain, it’s safe to surf this beach!” and so he and three of his soldiers crawl out of trenches in the mud to surf on waters being bombarded with explosives and crashing helicopters. The visual juxtaposition of the extremely hazardous circumstances with aquatic recreation feels bizarre, which is, of course, the intended effect. The screen is bright with gleaming water, white sand, blue skies, and fiery blasts. War is still Hell here, but the Colonel is determined to make the most of it, to bring something with him from home to comfort him and his men.

Once they have acquired a boat, Willard and his team venture down the river towards the disgraced Colonel Kurtz’s hideout in Cambodia. Just about every other scene in this section of the film opens with a pan through fog, smoke, or fire obscuring the boat. They are alone in the wilderness, silhouettes under a hazy, surreal facade punctuated with explosions. Willard fixates on the dossier he has been given on Kurtz, dissecting his past and interrogating his motives. Meanwhile, his own moral direction begins to swing astray. He executes civilians, leads the other soldiers into dangerous situations, and begins to question the purpose of his assignment. As the mission devolves and his companions are killed, more frames feature only Willard, in close-ups of his face gazing into the aether and shrouded by mist or night. He is becoming enveloped by the strangeness of the world he has entered. Unable to trust his surroundings or himself, the only thing he can truly focus on is Colonel Kurtz.

When he is finally introduced, Kurtz is shown only partially obscured by darkness; a quiet voice in the shadow and light catching on the suggestion of a face. Although this is mainly the result of Marlon Brando’s refusal to be filmed from the waist down due to his weight gain, it draws a parallel between Kurtz and Willard as they become more similar to each other in one major aspect: their disillusionment. They meet at the very end of the film, when Willard has grown so conflicted that he cannot decide whether he truly should carry out his mission. Thus, they are now both in the dark, isolated from their families, their values, and the army they used to be so loyal to. Kurtz is described by Willard as a man who is torn up and destroyed, so captivated by the terrors he has witnessed and the violence he has committed that he is consumed by them. He monologues feverishly to Willard about “the horror” that he refuses to let himself forget. Kurtz refuses to give up command, refuses to leave his post. He is obsessed with the fear he faces.

When entering the unknown and the unfamiliar, whether in war or pandemic, whether on foreign, battle-torn seas or locked up at home, we find something to cling onto; be it cigarettes, rock and roll, surfing, morality, or fear. Apocalypse Now will certainly leave an impression on me, especially considering I’ll have a lot of time alone with my thoughts to dwell on it in these coming weeks. In the meantime, I’ll try to avoid starting a cult in the Cambodian jungle. I think I’ll stick to playing Tetris.

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Alex Clare

Apocalypse Now - The Horror of War

By Alex Clare

“The horror, the horror.” These were the final words of Colonel Walter Kurtz in Francis Ford Coppola’s 1979 war film, Apocalypse Now. Unlike most American war films, which glorify the heroism and grand spectacle of war, Apocalypse Now illustrates an honest depiction of all aspects of the Vietnam War, horror included.

Right from the beginning of the film, Coppola introduces the horror of war in the form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Our protagonist, Captain Willard, is returning to war after having been sent back to America. Imagery and audio of choppers flying, forests being scorched, and the chaos of war are superimposed on Willard’s restless head. Immediately, we can see the effects war has on a man. Willard can’t integrate back into society, all he knows is war. He needs war. He needs to be given another mission, and his wishes are granted. His mission is to find and kill Colonel Walter Kurtz, who the military deems too crazy to be kept alive. The war has gotten to his head, and he’s become a bloodthirsty maniac. However, we come to find that every soldier in the war has become a killing machine.

In many American films, war is glorified by depicting heroic characters saving the day with loud, triumphic scores. Unlike the typical American war film, Apocalypse Now’s score is eerie and subtle. In Apocalypse Now, war is ironically glorified to criticize the morals of the American people. The characters are enthusiastic about committing terrible acts against innocent people. War is even sexualized in one scene in which Playboy models dance for the soldiers while holding guns. Any morsel of sympathy has been buried deep within the exoskeleton of masculinity that the soldiers exhibit. They call the Viet Cong by the name “Charlie.” This effectively dehumanizes the enemy by categorizing each individual under one homogenous entity. The soldiers don’t know who Charlie is, they just know he must die.

Colonel Kilgore, the commander of an attack helicopter squadron, is the epitome of the emotionless killing machine. He agrees to invade a beach, killing numerous innocent civilians, because of the prospect that the beach may have good waves for surfing. Kilgore’s character has all of the stereotypical masculine values that were instilled into young men of this era. In perhaps the most famous scene in the film, the helicopter squadron annihilates a Vietnemese village as Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” plays. In this brilliant use of music, the irony is that the song is about a group of flying women warriors. The soldiers are so engrossed in the war that they are ignorant to the fact that their anthem is about powerful women, the antithesis of their masculine personas. It is a horrifying notion that the men of this era could be turned into killing machines because their masculine values are exposed to a war.

While Captain Willard already had war experience, other characters entered the war without any exposure to such experiences. The most notable of these characters is Lance Johnson, a surfer. Lance comes from a background that is vastly different from what he’ll come to experience in Vietnam. He grows fond of a puppy that the crew finds after killing a group of Vietnamese civilians. This puppy is a symbol of innocence in a land that is becoming less and less innocent each day. While he holds onto the puppy for as long as he can, Lance eventually loses the puppy during firefight with the Viet Cong, an experience that traumatizes him and contributes to his loss of innocence. Throughout the film, Johnson’s entire appearance changes drastically. He goes from having a perfectly toned, unscathed figure to being completely inundated in Vietnam through his appearance. He paints his face in order to blend into his environment and he makes a sort of headdress out of an arrow that was shot at him, fully embracing the violence of war. It is a common motif in the film for characters’ appearances to reflect the effect the war is having on them. Willard himself completely camouflages himself as he finally completes his mission. In the moments in which Willard commits his most cruel acts, the soil of Vietnam covers his skin. He is fully consumed by the war.

The horror of the war is incredibly harmful to almost every character in the film. However, one character stands as the lone exception to this generalization. Colonel Kurtz has learned to accept the horror of the war rather than be harmed by it. He has become acquainted with the horror, and as a result he thrives in this environment. While other characters may thrive in a war environment, they are still greatly harmed by the war, whether it's from PTSD or because they’ve lost their human qualities and have become war machines. Kurtz is not harmed by the war, but rather benefits from it, and that’s because he embraces its horror. When he is killed, it is intercut with the ceremonial slaughter of a bull. This powerful moment drives home the idea that Kurtz has embraced the culture of Vietnam. After Captain Willard kills Colonel Kurtz, images of war once again spiral in his head. This serves as a book end for the film. The difference is that this time, Willard understands the horror of war, and that is conveyed by Kurtz’ final words replaying in his head: “The horror, the horror.” Captain Kurtz, the embodiment of the horror of war is finally dead: the only semblance of a happy ending in the film. However, the horror of war still lives on.

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Runner Up: Tomi Osawa

Fair is Foul, and Foul is Fair: On Lady Macbeth Directed by William Oldroyd

by Tomi Osawa (Lowell High School)
 

The movie Lady Macbeth has little to do with Shakespeare. There are no puffed sleeves, swords, or words such as “art thou” and “wherefore.” Unlike Shakespeare's revered play, the movie is not set in Scotland but instead in 19th century rural England. There are no witches, kings, or civil wars. However, despite these differences, the film and play are similar in one critical sense: they are both, without a doubt, tragedies.

Lady Macbeth tells the story of a woman, Katherine Lester, trapped in a loveless marriage to a spiteful and perverse man twice her age. She is told she must stay in their country house, where she is starved of companionship, entertainment, and, ultimately, happiness. When her husband leaves on a trip, Katherine relishes her newfound freedom and is eager to explore. She begins a passionate affair with one of the estate’s workingmen, which is initially a fairytale but quickly takes a much darker turn. It’s a movie about loneliness and lust, a dangerous combination that causes Katherine to commit increasingly extreme and immoral acts as the film progresses. Lady Macbeth effectively immerses the viewers into the slow-burning story of Katherine Lester through cinematography, dramatic character development, and music editing.

Lady Macbeth’s set design and cinematography masterfully sets a melancholy and bleak mood for the film. Through the use of clever and deliberate camera work, the viewers are able to get a glimpse at how truly oppressive and unwelcoming life on the estate is. The film is shot in primarily cool tones, therefore it seems as though the world of Katherine Lester is engulfed in a perpetual overcast. The manor that Katherine is trapped in is austere and riddled with dark corners and grey-white walls. This sparse and frigid aesthetic gives the viewer an idea of both the depression and oppression Katherine experiences. Another effective visual technique prevalent in Lady Macbeth is the use of long and lingering shots of life on the manor, free of dialogue. There are scenes where the camera simply stares at Katherine’s blank face while lying in bed or struggling to stay awake doing simple daily tasks. These scenes, although seemingly simple, are able to expose so much about Katherine’s character and the depression she experiences living a monotonous and joyless life. Lady Macbeth is not just a visually stunning film: its design evokes emotion, demands empathy, and pushes the audience to get lost in Katherine’s dark world and mind.

One of the most interesting and thought-provoking aspects of Lady Macbeth is the ever-changing relationship the viewer has with Katherine as the film progresses. At the beginning of the film, it’s clear that Katherine is a character deserving of anyone’s sympathy. She was sold like a commodity into a marriage to a man that is distant, cruel, and sexually perverse. Her life seems to consist primarily of red wine, stiff dresses, and staring out windows. Therefore, it’s impossible not to root for her as she explores her newfound freedom and finally smiles in a seemingly unsmiling world. However, as the film progresses, Katherine steadily morphs from the victim to the villain, from prey to predator. It becomes clear to the audience that Katherine is selfish and, quite frankly, insane. The viewer is inevitably forced to reassess their allegiances and is faced with an interesting ethical dilemma: is it wrong to have sympathy for someone who is quite obviously a twisted individual? Katherine’s dramatic character arc is thought-provoking and has the audience not only examining her morality, but also their own. Therefore it allows for an overall more engaging film that leaves its audience thinking far beyond its hour and a half run time.

Lady Macbeth’s music, or lack thereof, makes for an unconventional and ultimately riveting viewing experience that draws the audience to the edge of their seats. With the exception of its two critical climaxes, the film is completely void of any soundtrack or musical score. This technique allows for the viewer to truly understand the power of silence. It strengthens the sense of loneliness one gets from a dinner scene, one where nothing is heard but the scraping of silverware on fine china. There’s nothing emptier than the sound of footsteps on hardwood floors, echoing through an empty mansion. Lady Macbeth makes it apparent that silence can be much more telling and powerful than dialogue. However, this silence is then beautifully marred by two surges of music at the most pivotal moments of the film. This contrast can’t help but give one goosebumps and raise one’s heart rate. This unique technique is simple but provocative, as it heightens the viewer’s emotional and physical response to the film.

Lady Macbeth is a slow-burning film that effectively seizes the attention of its viewers with brilliant aesthetics, complex characters, and deliberate sound editing. Although it’s definitely not Shakespeare, it does not disappoint when it comes to elements of calculated betrayal, dangerous lust, and poisonous power. It is a one-of-a-kind movie that leaves its viewers tampering with a common but significant question: what came first, the heartless person or the heartless world?

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Third Place: Shiuan Cheng

Portrayal of Humanity in Blade Runner

by Shiuan Cheng (Lowell High School)

In the film Blade Runner (1982), Ridley Scott explores the idea of humanity, portraying how an individual’s struggles and experiences are what make them human. Throughout the movie, the replicants are depicted to be inhuman, not because of their mechanical existence, but rather because of their perfect design. Yet, as they begin to realize the futility of their quest for survival, the replicants begin to seem more humane. To express this struggle that defines one’s humanity, and the hardships that accompany it, Scott uses the cinematic techniques of lighting, symbolism, and imagery.

In Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner, lighting is used to represent the imperfections that deem an individual, human. Over the course of the film, a variety of close-up shots are employed while the characters, human or not, exchange dialogue. However, a major difference which Scott applies to differentiate between replicants and humans is the lighting reflected in their faces. Shots of humans, especially Deckard, consist of imperfections in the brightness of their face, with usually one side being darker. In shots of the replicants, on the other hand, the lighting reflected in the entirety of their face is nearly always the same hue, with no irregularities. This element of lighting expresses the burden carried by human individuals, as they must live with the weight of their mistakes and weaknesses. The replicants do not share this burden, as they are designed to be flawless in every way, and so they are alienated from humanity. However, as they begin to face defeat in their quest to prolong their four-year life span, the replicants begin to shed their invincibility. As the androids begin to succumb to the efforts of Deckard to “retire” them, the imperfect lighting reserved for shots of human individuals is broadened to include shots of Roy Batty, the replicant leader. As he begins to accept the fate to which his allies have already fallen victim to, this defeat is represented by the lighting of Batty’s face, which now shows irregularity in tone and brightness, since the replicant has accepted his intended death. The futility of his quest, and the eventual failure that Batty and his replicant brethren meet, is what ultimately deems them humanlike, as they yield to the mortal threat of death, though their subsequent acquisition of humanity is reflected by the meticulous utilization of lighting by Scott.

In Blade Runner, Ridley Scott employs symbolism to reflect the flaws and experiences of defeat which make up the human soul. The Voight-Kampff tests, which are designed to determine whether a subject is human or a replicant, takes advantage of the fact that replicants are designed to be the “perfect” human: they are stronger both mentally and physically, and have the ability to perform tougher labor without the limitations imposed by human emotions and pain. The tests utilize a series of emotionally provocative questions to elicit and observe a subject’s psychological response, in the form of their heart rate, respiration, and eye movements, and it is the replicants’ exact inability to share human empathy and stress that leads to their detection. The Voight-Kampff tests express the symbolism of how although the removal of the ability to feel empathy was done to free the replicants of a seemingly human flaw, the absence of this “defect” is what is exploited by interrogation to reveal what the replicants lack: a human soul. Without the seeming “flaws” of human emotions and stress, the replicants are inhuman, and it is this idea that is examined by the Voight-Kampff tests.

Ultimately, as the androids’ mission draws to a close, chief replicant Roy Batty is left as the sole survivor. Though he is seemingly hunting Deckard to avenge his fallen allies, Batty ultimately reveals his harmless intentions after saving Deckard’s life, while also ensnaring a dove in his hands. Deckard, still fearful of the resilient automaton, grows calm as Batty expresses his thoughts. While he regrets the loss of his experiences “like tears in rain,” Batty reveals his acceptance of the fact that it is his “time to die.” Following his dramatic monologue, and peaceful death, the previously captured dove breaks free of the android’s grasp, and soars into the open sky, symbolic of Batty’s now released soul. By yielding to his ultimate enemy of death, the replicant leader is toppled from his faultless pedestal, but humanized by his failure. Though he was created as an automaton, the released dove symbolizes the obtainment of humanity by Batty in his final moments, with his acceptance of defeat, and it is through the use of symbolism that Scott is able to express the importance of flaws and failure in the definition of a human soul.

Ridley Scott utilizes imagery in Blade Runner to express how struggle characterizes humanity. Through the duration of the film, the cinematic technique of film noir is used in conjunction with practical effects, including the manipulation of smoke and blinding spotlights, to form a mechanical and industrial setting. The imagery of this environment: dark, lifeless, and robotic, reflects how the adoption of machinery by humans to remove their struggles and responsibilities results in the detachment of life from societies. Without the necessity for human labor and strife, humanity departs from their community, both physically and metaphorically, as machines have litterately taken over human jobs, leading to their physical departure from society. Yet, allegorically, the lack of struggle and purpose that was once created by the need to work has also led to the shriveling of humanity within certain individuals, such as J.F. Sebastian, who has grown distant from his community and surrounds himself with mechanical “friends,” which he designs.

Without the purpose once given to him by his job as a genetic designer for the Tyrell Corporation, Sebastian has lost a part of his humanity as he has grown more attached to his robotic companions, rather than his human community. This idea that humanity is defined by the purpose given to them through challenge and struggle is further exemplified by the difference in imagery of human and replicant eyes. Although the eyes of human characters always appear natural and lifelike, the eyes of replicants often appear glassy, and have an unnatural reflection of lights. Since the replicants have been designed to be flawless, their eyes, much more durable and effective than those of humans, lack the soul that comes with strife. While human eyesight is held back by physical limitations, the vision of replicants suffer no such hardship, which is reflected in their soulless eyes. Without suffering the same restraint faced by humans, the replicants lack the life which is characterized by hindrance, and as eyes are the “windows to the soul,” the lack of a soul is also reflected in the glassy and reflective eyes of the replicants. It is through the precise utilization of imagery, that Scott is able to convey the importance of strife in the definition of humanity.

With his meticulous use of lighting, symbolism, and imagery, Ridley Scott addresses the idea of humanity, in his film Blade Runner (1982). Scott argues that humanity is defined by an individual’s flaws and struggles, and this idea is depicted by the transformation of the replicants. Though initially alienated by their perfection, the replicants ultimately acquire humanity as they experience and accept defeat in their quest to prolong their life span. Although individuals often seek mastery of their lives, and the elements that surround them, one must realize that it is through defeat and struggle that growth is enabled, and it is growth rather than presumed success which defines a human.

2020 Tarkovsky Prize Second Place: Huckleberry Shelf

Post-War Paranoia and American Privilege in The Third Man

By Huckleberry Shelf (18, Ruth Asawa School of the Arts)

Carol Reed’s The Third Man weaves seamlessly together two very disparate stories. One is the obvious crime story revolving around black market racketeer Harry Lime and hack novelist Holly Martins. The other exists in the crevices and side streets of the first; it is a document of the pervasive intensity of fear and paranoia, both specifically in post-war Vienna and generally in life after the second world war. The second story constantly exists underlying the first one, showing the American privilege that is at the root of both Holly Martins’ heroism and Harry Lime’s evil.

Paranoia is everywhere in the way the film is shot. Dutch angles are used constantly, which makes everything feel skewed and wrong. This technique, combined with a subtly expressionist harshness of contrast in the black and white, allows cinematographer Robert Krasker to create a constant dark atmosphere. One shot that is particularly striking comes when the international police arrive to arrest Harry Lime’s old girlfriend Anna Schmidt. It’s a shot from above of the staircase. On the left, Schmidt’s landlady looks up towards Schmidt’s room, speaking German (presumably railing against the behavior of the police). On the right, the police ascend the stairs, but the lighting is such that they cast shadows over one another until the only thing you see is their shadows moving. The police, intended to be a protective force, become an object of fear, and their shadows advance on the viewer. Throughout the film, figures are skewed and cast in shadow, until the viewer isn’t sure if they can trust anyone.

The fear that runs through Vienna is also shown in how the general citizenry is portrayed. We are shown a city where those who aren’t criminals have been cowed into patterns of inaction. The porter at Lime’s building blows up when Martins asks him to go to the police, seemingly knowing that being involved with the law or with the lawless in any capacity will only end poorly for him. The camera cuts often to the faces of bystanders; always in shadow and always seemingly retreating from the camera. Fully understanding that fear requires looking at the context around it. This is a city that has just lost a war and is in complete turmoil. It has been split suddenly into four completely new governments. Those who live comfortably feel acutely the precariousness of that comfort, and know that in a city so volatile the best thing to do is nothing.

It’s hard to live in Reed’s Vienna and not have some connection with illegal activity. This is portrayed mostly in subtext, through small interactions. Resources are clearly scarce. When Martins gives Anna’s landlady a few cigarettes, she thanks him like they’re made of gold. Anna has a bottle of whisky an American theatregoer has given her, but rather than drink it, she is keeping it to sell. The general assumption made by the characters in this film is that they can’t take anything for granted, and the knowledge they have is that whenever they need money the black market is there waiting.

Holly Martins enters this city completely innocent of that assumption and knowledge, and so he floats around with impunity, barely paying any mind to the damage he causes. He comes into a precarious situation, and acts before he knows anything, trying to avenge his friend who he later learns is little better than a mass murderer. He barely seems to register the death of the porter. His brash heroics are something uniquely American, reflected in the pulpy Westerns he writes; he believes himself throughout the movie to be the center of something. He thinks that he has something that no one else does, either some knowledge or some drive. When it’s finally true, and he can be the hero and bring down Lime, it begins to feel wrong to him. Lime is his friend, and he can’t conceive his friend as the great evil of a western novel. This is reflected in the way the final chase scene through the sewers is shot. Rather than focusing on the heroic Martins, the camera fixates on Lime, and for the whole time Lime looks trapped and terrified. He appears not as a great criminal but as a cornered animal. He is pitiful, and the viewer is drawn to pity him, despite how many people he’s hurt and killed. Reed, in the way he designs this scene, is rejecting the American novel, where the bad guy is vanquished and everyone is happy. There is no question that Lime is evil but he’s also Holly’s best friend and Anna’s lover. Nothing is as simple as Martins has made a career of making it out to be.

What’s interesting is that, despite his many flaws, Lime rejects the privileged mindset that Martins has. In the famous scene where Holly confronts Lime in a ferris wheel, Lime reminds Holly that nobody is a hero, and that nobody deserves a spotlight. Furthermore, he understands the corruption in authority that Martins can’t seem to see. “No one thinks in terms of human beings anymore,” he says. “Governments don’t, so why should I?” By having Harry Lime make these criticisms that Reed has been leading the audience to for the whole film, but making them in service of justifying his murder of hundreds of innocent people, Reed forces you to confront the greyness of everyone’s morality.

At the end of the day, both Americans are two sides of the same coin; they are both using the people around them to get where they want to go. The only difference is Martins is using them through his privileged obliviousness and Lime is tactically exploiting them. Thanks to Reed’s ability to so strongly portray the mood and temperament of the citizenry of Vienna he can leave almost all of this under the surface of what would otherwise be a simple crime story. The ramifications of the story, however, are profoundly changed. Where otherwise, when the villain is defeated, one might be left with a feeling of relief, the ending of The Third Man feels empty. One is left with the sense that with or without Lime nothing will change in Vienna. It is a damaged city, and it will stay damaged in a way that shooting one man could never fix. That’s all that Lime is at the end of the day, just another man. Martins comes to this realization, just as the film ends. He stands at the side of the road, Anna walks past him, and he realizes that what he did amounted to next to nothing. No girl, no glory, just a dead friend.