Review: THE WORLD OF APU

By Lucy Johns, Art and Film mentor

When Apu wakes long after his new bride is up from their humble bed in Calcutta – a couple of tables spread with a thin pad - his hand emerges from under the pillow holding a hairpin. With this featherweight image held on screen for several seconds, the viewer knows Apu has cleaved to his beautiful wife as tightly as her voluminous hair is bound with filamentous pins.

The viewer also knows a master is at work with the film The World of Apu. Satyajit Ray’s last in his trilogy on the early life of an Indian orphan seeking freedom and artistic fulfillment barely hints that this quest mirrors the struggle of the entire country to throw off British rule. The story focuses entirely on Apu’s confrontation with the small events that define and shatter and rejuvenate the soul of every individual life. He pawns precious books to pay his rent because he would rather starve and write than work the menial jobs from which he recoils. Exhilarated by a little food and companionship, he shouts poetry into the night and expounds, in the middle of train tracks, his vision of a novel. He’s going somewhere. The promise of arrival is signaled by his first success: a short story accepted.

His first stop on the road of life is utterly unplanned. Apu accompanies his friend to a wedding in the country where he is drafted to become the groom after the promised one appears insane. Overwhelmed by his new responsibilities, he is soon overwhelmed by love and then by grief when the exquisite Arana dies in childbirth. Refusing any contact with the living baby, he wanders in spiritual and geographic wilderness for five years, scattering the fragile pages of his neglected novel and working only to save money to leave the country. When his friend finds and berates him for abandoning his son, Apu responds as he did when the same friend begged him to marry the girl who will otherwise be cursed by the stigma of aborted marriage. He is not that conventional person, he will not be a father any more than he thought he could be a husband. But he cannot resist the pull of an elemental human tie. His son is a killer of birds and caster of stones, furious at his own orphanhood. His pout bears a searing resemblance to his mother’s. The boy ultimately succumbs to the fantasy of reunion with his father in Calcutta, to whom his “friend” will take him on his shoulders. The film ends with Apu beaming for the first time in many years while the face above his slowly relaxes into its own journey, about to start.

It is not easy to explain how the nobility of the central character and the profoundly sustaining simplicity of Indian culture are indelibly imprinted by this film. The physical beauty of the young couple is an element. Minor characters, each captured in only a few words and seconds on screen, look at Apu and murmur about gods. The crowd in the Calcutta apartment complex reaches to touch Arana. The aural beauty of Ravi Shankar’s sitar in the background, punctuated by the simplest noises – train whistles, village songs, babies crying – casts it own spell. The acting is so eloquent it may overlie some native capacity to project deep emotion unbidden by a script. Eye-watering scenes abound: the friend pronounces Apu’s manuscript “wonderful, just wonderful”; Arana’s mother affirms a lifetime knowledge of Apu after a few minutes of contact; a man in thrall to appalling drudgery silently appraises Apu as unfit for that work, perhaps for this life. The camera sweeps over Indian landscapes and pathways and water courses and work objects and household furnishings with no color to distract from their elemental forms. The film tells a universal story in completely mundane settings with a beauty that elevates it to a realm of pure enchantment.
It is odd that doing so virtually denatures the film’s locale. There is nothing particularly “Indian” in its imagery or symbols…nothing a Western viewer hasn’t seen before except perhaps the painted face of a Brahmin bride. Ray has so absorbed – perhaps the India of his time had so absorbed - European notions of beauty that he presents his native land only in their terms. The World of Apu dazzles with a classical European aesthetic.

It honors the assumption that frames 2,000 years of artistic endeavor:

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

—John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

Review: FANNY AND ALEXANDER

by Lucy Johns, Art and Film mentor

“Fanny and Alexander,” Ingmar Bergman’s final film, delights not only for its artistry but also for its revelations about the great director’s frame of mind. The consummate explorer of angst affirms here that evil can be punished and fears vanquished. The result is a film more affectionate than analytical, more hopeful than tormented. In the context of Bergman’s body of work, marked by ever more inventive agonizing over the human condition, this shift is an unexpected joy.

The transformation means a new theme, a new dramatic focus, and a new directness. Rather than transmuting his doubts and questions into characters, Bergman delves behind character to explore its origins in the family. In “Fanny and Alexander,” family is the lead and family dynamics is the story. The film conjures scenes of goodness and evil notable for the director’s lack of ironic distance. It radiates a reconciliation with women, typically portrayed by Bergman as the force behind most of man’s anxieties. These explorations wrap around a traditional Bergman assumption: that salvation lies in the creation of illusion. Theater, puppets, magic, even deranged people who see and feel more than normal ones do, can save the most wounded victim. All this in three hours structured almost as a play that echoes “Hamlet” at many points.

“Fanny and Alexander” divides into two long acts. The first follows a boisterous Swedish family celebrating Christmas a century ago in the sumptuous home of grandmother Helena (Gunn Wållgren, one of Sweden’s greatest actors). Helena is beautiful, rich, and empathetic, unencumbered by class snobbery (the servants eat and play with the family) or ethnic prejudice (an elderly Jew is Helena’s treasured companion in her widowhood). Her three sons embody familiar Bergman crises beneath the brilliant surface. Their financial, sexual, and existential dilemmas are presented, however, with some welcome warmth and humor. Each son is sustained by a much younger wife who shares his anguish and tolerates his avoidance strategy – alcohol, sex, theater - with old-world feminine grace. Fanny and Alexander are energetic siblings in the swirl of humanity filling the house. When their father collapses while playing Hamlet’s ghost, the stage is set for the next act. A life of color and glamour darkened only by typical existential conflicts descends into a hell created by their mother’s remarriage to the local bishop.

Alexander detests this cleric from the first moment. The boy intuits a polished hypocrite, played to perfection by Jan Malmsjö. Alexander and Fanny shrink from his unctuous voice, controlling hand, and barely concealed malice. Alexander spins tales of escape and felonies that are heard by his stepfather as lies, a transgression subject to severe discipline. He gets a horrific beating. The scene evokes inspired film-making. Only female faces are shown: the bishop’s mother, complacent; his sister, complicit; the tattle-tale servant, fearful; and Fanny, powerless. Only the wallops of a willow wand are heard. Alexander is not shown and makes no sound. His repentance, coerced by torture, is smugly accepted as evidence that violence can teach morality. The conflict between these males goes beyond Oedipal. The young Alexander doesn’t so much challenge his father’s usurper as he embodies an innocence that evil, camouflaged in religious rectitude, is determined to destroy.

 The use of sound during the beating is one of several scenes where fortissimo noise nails emotional identification to the visuals. A village creek roars, portending catastrophe. Four great draft horses thunder to the rescue over cobbled streets – not quite the Lone Ranger and Silver, but suited for the purpose and time. Screams resound through a silent house, blasting children out of bed to witness uninhibited grief. The crack of elastic branch on bare flesh signifies fearsome brutality. Sound imbues imagery with a power that marks a master at work.

The resolution of the central drama between a boy and his male nemesis is not the only struggle overcome in “Fanny and Alexander.” Several women in the film suggest that Bergman has surmounted some primal male phobias patent in his previous work. An independent grandmother, a redeemed mother, a devoted sister, a ribald servant who yearns to control her life all transcend the patriarchal stereotypes that haunt his films. Grandmother Helena presides over a household whose tolerance and rituals are represented as the only reliable solace there is. Alexander’s uncle affirms this in a long monologue that veers towards maudlin but still seems heartfelt. Alexander’s grandmother and mother murmur happily, “It looks like we’re in charge now.” These scenes convey a peace that feels real for their author. No longer a threat, the women in “Fanny and Alexander” are merely fascinating. The Alexander who grew up and brought so many unhappy females to life on the screen here presents women as beneficent as they are complex. If they signal an evolution of Bergman’s consciousness, they may explain how he produced this masterpiece of indelible, and not at all predictable, humanity.

Review: SONGS FROM THE SECOND FLOOR

by Lucy Johns, SF Art and Film mentor

Scandinavia has a proud artistic and philosophical tradition accentuating the negative. Kierkegaard (Denmark) published “The Concept of Dread” in 1844, introducing “angst” (existential dread) into philosophical discourse. Ibsen’s plays (Norway), Munch’s paintings (Norway), Lagerkvist’s parables (Sweden), Bergman’s films (Sweden) – all grapple with the meaning of life, the nature of sin, how account for suffering if god exists, or if he doesn’t *then* what. Swedish director Roy Andersson’s “Songs from the Second Story” is a worthy addition to this creative exploitation of irremediable melancholy. “Songs” is unique, however, for its mordant wit. Andersson exhibits a talent for scenes where you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He sustains this unsettling duality for an entire arresting film.

“Songs” covers a range of mundane human predicaments through a string of short stories where numerous characters suffer personal catastrophes. It opens with a desperate businessman pleading with a partner visible only as a pair of feet black against a phosphorescent tanning bed. Their firm has to close, whatever tragedies might result. The first casualty is a weeping employee clutching at the businessman as he marches down an endless hallway lined with doors open a crack to witness the misery, then closing one after the other on the hapless clerk out of a job. A foreign worker can’t find a contact in the firm’s building. When he exits in confusion, he is assaulted by thugs who mock his Swedish and beat him senseless as a line of white-collar workers watches from a bus stop across the street. Next up: a distraught storekeeper who has set fire to his own shop argues with impassive insurance inspectors about valuables he can’t document and they can’t see. This bathetic scene introduces a cinematic flourish that recurs throughout the film: a busy background tableau. The merchant whines while a crowd of office workers struggles down the street flagellating themselves like their medieval ancestors. Is his despair comparable to the Black Death? Don’t be ridiculous, the director suggests. [Bergman also showed flagellants (“The Seventh Seal”). A strong cultural reference in Sweden, it seems. You think you have problems? Just remember *that*.] Further stories ensue. Some end abruptly, some continue later. All share the endemic despair and tragi-comic directorial commentary so marked in this film.

“Songs” disposes mercilessly of patriotism, superstition, and religion as strategies to keep fear at bay. A famous general sits on a bedpan in a nursing home while visiting military brass  celebrate his 100th birthday. “My regards to Goëring,” he barks, raising a brisk Nazi salute. This is Andersson’s response to a character stuck in a grid-locked taxi who invokes history and tradition as lifelines to sustain sanity. Uh-huh, grunts the director: Here’s our history. (The Swedes pursued “neutrality” with Germany during WWII, one reason they were not attacked or occupied, as Norway and Denmark were.) An august Economic Council meets to pronounce on the country’s future. While an aging expert fumbles through his papers for an answer, his colleagues pass a crystal ball from hand to hand. When the group storms out of the room in a panic while the Chairman intones how important it is not to panic, a gypsy fortune teller remains at the table, lace tablecloth spread on the table before her. The most provocative symbolism mocks religion. A gum-chewing bishop sought for spiritual comfort discourses on housing prices. A replica of Christ in an exhibition hall of commercial crucifixes swings rhythmically from its cross by one hand while a salesman fumbles for a nail to attach the other. Andersson doesn’t stop at Christianity. A huge zoom out depicts a human sacrifice of “the bloom of youth” as dozens of church and state leaders officiate. Religion, invented by man for solace and explanation, revels in murder. 

Sex, a more fashionable source of respite for modern man, is in this film yet another occasion for torment.  Only women are eager for it. The available men are preoccupied or totally passive. This treatment is reminiscent of early Bergman: woman as temptress, beyond the comprehension of mere males who need and annoy females in equal measure.

“Songs” shows only a moment of redemption from the incessant disasters that can be hilarious to onlookers: a man already sympathetic from other scenes cradles his lover blowing into a recorder while he plays the keys. The image is sweet, the flute’s music a moment of calm in the cascade of imbroglios so inventively mined for commingled dread and ridicule by the director. (Andersson also wrote the script.)

“Songs” might well have degenerated into farce à la Monty Python were it not for Andersson’s remarkable cinematic skill. Almost all the film’s stories were shot in a warehouse meticulously transformed for every change of scene. This knack for design verges on genius when we see a vast airport corridor lined with immobile ticket agents who watch a dozen doors pour forth panting passengers straining to get away from it all while hauling towering piles of baggage they can’t leave behind. Many scenes repeat compositional touches introduced early on: the long receding perspective, the background action. The film’s color palette is drained and bleak: light in Scandinavia is pale at best and anyway absent half the year. A static camera films the few outdoor vignettes to stress the enormity of space compared to the puny actors in it. Every shot proclaims the absurdity of existence and the futility of protest.

Andersson’s sensibility and eye produce a film so rife with images and references that a review is bound to neglect important features (e.g. the role of the sick and the dead as they interact with the living). In this he recalls Bergman and Fellini. That he has failed to find their fame with American audiences may be a mark of his unremitting pessimism. If there isn’t any sex to relieve it, we don’t want to know.

2011 Tarkovsky Prize 2nd Place: Abigail Schott-Rosenfield

HOPE IN LA DOLCE VITA

By Abigail Schott-Rosenfield

John Gardner writes in The Art of Fiction that people shouldn’t write if what they are portraying is completely hopeless. “If there is bad to be said, he [the artist] should say it in a way that reflects the truth that, though we see the evil, we choose to continue among the living.” La Dolce Vita is a film about the decadent life that many of the Italians of that time led, about what happens when people have too much money and idleness. Although many awful things occur in the film, La Dolce Vita is portrayed in a way that is not hopeless.

An example of this is the scene when Marcello and Emma are fighting in Marcello’s car. At first Emma won’t get back into the car, but then she won’t get out: “‘Where are you going, stupid? Come here,’ [says Marcello.] ‘No,’ [says Emma.] … ‘Get out of this car!’ [says Marcello.] ‘No!’ [says Emma.]” Marcello wants to be rid of Emma’s “aggressive, sticky, maternal love,” but he keeps coming back to her anyway; he leaves her on the side of the road, then comes back in the morning and ends up in bed with her. It is obvious that their love is unhealthy, but the scene is constructed hilariously. By the end of the scene, the viewer is not overcome with the anguish of Marcello and Emma’s relationship, although the sadness in the scene is clearly felt.

Marcello is a writer at heart, but he is too obsessed with “the sweet life” to realize it or to become a writer. The scene at the very center of the movie where he is working on his book is the one scene where he is trying to write for himself, putting his talents to use—but he writes hardly anything. Marcello is wasting the only time he has given himself to be a writer, but the scene is also hopeful: at least there is a brief interval where he tries to do what he is meant to do. He compares the serving girl, Paola, to an angel: in fact, the whole scene is a kind of heaven, like the eye of a hurricane. Even though Marcello writes next to nothing and goes back to his regular life fast, there has been one moment of truth for him.

Then at the end of the movie, Paola shows up again. She’s gesturing to Marcello across an estuary, making typing motions, reminding him of his true calling. But the wind is too strong; he can’t hear her. He is too far off the path of his writing to be able to interpret her signs. But after he turns away, Paola smiles. The movie ends like this, with a long close up of the little angel smiling. It ends with a remembrance of the small, good, hopeful time when Marcello was trying to be himself. Paola is still smiling after him, smiling in the face of how sad it is that he can’t see what he should be doing.

John Gardner wrote also that “every writer should be aware that he might be read by the desperate, by people who might be persuaded towards life or death.” This is not a movie that will leave you walking away wishing that you had never watched it. Although it may not be a story of bad becoming good, there are reminders in it that your own “sweet life” is there, if you are able to see it.

2011 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Midori Chen

EPISODES IN LA DOLCE VITA

by Midori Chen

While Marcello’s many episodes with different people at different places may not seem to be in order of particular importance, each story arc seems to have the plot sequence of 1.) The Encounter, 2.) The High, and finally 3.) The Tragedy. Each Encounter offers the hope of a new life for Marcello, each High convinces him that the life is perfect for him, and each Tragedy sends Marcello’s hopes crumbling down, until, at last, he hits rock bottom at the ending party, with the eye of nature looking up at him, and Marcello being too blind to recognize the girl, and most importantly, his writing, which might have saved him.

The first principal episode is Marcello’s meeting with Maddalena at the nightclub. He sees her by chance, which would be The Encounter. The High would be when they went to the house of a prostitute and proceeds to make love. When Marcello returns home and finds Emma on the ground, having overdosed, his panicked professions of eternal love is The Tragedy.

The arrival of American actress Sylvia marks the beginning of the “second episode,” and his talk with Sylvia on the top of St. Peter’s dome would be the first time they’ve “met.” There are ups and downs in the events following, but mainly, The High would be the party Sylvia dances at, and the overarching Tragedy would be when the sun rises, and the water in the Trevi Fountain gets turned off; it effectively broke the movie-esque spell of love and romance Marcello and Sylvia were in, prompting them to leave.

The third episode is scattered throughout the film, but mainly centers around Marcello’s relationship with the wealthy intellectual Steiner. The Encounter is at a church, where Steiner plays the organ for Marcello. He later invites Marcello to the gathering at his house, where they listen to sounds of nature recorded on tape—a homage to the fact that this is all being portrayed in a movie—natural scenes put into manmade recorders and distributed. While it wasn’t the most “high,” the party would count as the second step. The Tragedy is, obviously, the suicide of Steiner after he killed his two children, because he didn’t wish for them to experience the ugly side of the world. Marcello was deeply disturbed at his best friend’s suicide, but goes to pick up Steiner’s wife while paparazzi swarm around them.

Between the parts of the Steiner episode, the Madonna-sighting would be the fourth. Marcello never actually “meets” the children, but the audience does, and The High swiftly follows The Encounter in the rain, as the children run around, pointing at empty places, claiming they see the Madonna, and the crowd follows them in an uproar, wanting the blessings of the Virgin Mary to themselves, regardless of their religious teachings, ultimately representing human selfishness. They even stripped the tree that was said to have sheltered the Madonna with its branches. Emma, Marcello’s lover, did so as well, and prayed that she be given Marcello’s sole affection, because she felt him drawing away from him. The Tragedy of the immigrant child being trampled to death after being brought all this way for a blessing from the Madonna ends this episode, with the funeral held at dawn.

The fifth episode is centered around Marcello’s father. They quickly Encounter at the nightclub where the audience first saw Marcello, and The High takes place at the Cha-Cha-Cha Club, as a request of Marcello’s dad. There they encounter Fanny, the father’s female companion of the night, then return to Fanny’s house. Marcello’s father gets sick, however, and requests to be taken to the train station, where he could take the earliest train and be home by ten. The Tragedy occurs when Marcello tries to get him to stay, because they never spent any time together, but his father leaves anyway, in a drunken stupor.

The party at the castle of the aristocrats (the sixth episode) and later the party at the beach house (the seventh episode) do not have particularly clear Encounters, Highs, and Tragedies, though the Encounter could be counted as the audience’s first meetings with the different characters. The Highs, however, are hard to decide, for separate reasons. The sixth episode because while the party was a high itself, it’s hard to say whether the wedding proposal from Maddalena is the High (and her silence subsequently the Tragedy), or the ghost-hunt at the abandoned mansion, along with Marcello’s night with the other woman the High (and their cold parting the Tragedy).

The seventh episode was basically a High entirely in itself, but it’s hard to determined whether it’s the High from the audience’s point of view, or Marcello’s point of view. The audience would say the entire party and the strip tease was the High of that episode, but for Marcello, it would probably be when he was encouraging the drunken orgy from the partygoers. The Tragedy that ends the movie overall, though, is the death of the fish-beast on the beach, and how it stared even in its death. This scene mirrors the opening sequence of the statue of Jesus moving over the city, something manmade watching from above, and the fish from nature at its finest—the ocean—ending everything by watching from below. It gives the movie sequences a sense of symmetry, and ultimately combines the idea of being watched over.

One thing that definitely stood out is the girl Marcello met at the cafe on the beach. He said she was beautiful, and asked why she smiled in response. Later, she appears at the end, and her smiling face closes the movie. While each episode demonstrates an alternative life that is presented to Marcello, the Tragedy in each also marks the darker side of each life, such as the perfect life of Steiner that ended with the death of almost his entire family. The girl—the odd one out of the sequence—represents the ability Marcello possesses to free himself from this fruitless search for a better life—his writing—and her last smile, something pitying and understanding, marks Marcello’s lost into the dark world.

2011 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Mykel Mogg

CHOICE IN LA DOLCE VITA

By Mykel Mogg

La Dolce Vita is about choice. Throughout the film, radically different ideas on each theme are shown. It is mostly left up to the viewer to decide what they take away from it. For example, one of the themes explored is monogamy versus promiscuity. Marcello is trapped in an unhealthy monogamous relationship that shows us the stifling nature of the Italian woman. She is constantly feeding him, taking care of him, and scolding him, much like a mother. When we see the alternative of loveless promiscuity, it is not anywhere near appealing.

Another thing Fellini does this with is the rich and extravagant versus poor and humble. We can see the deep pathetic boredom of the rich in most of the movie's party scenes, but especially the ghost hunt in the mansion. Instead of hunting for game, they are hunting for ghosts of the past because they are no longer relevant in the present. It's like nothing is sacred to them- it has all been trampled on. When Marcello expresses his admiration for Steiner, he talks about the clash of security and materialism versus spirituality. When Steiner commits suicide it seems that he chose spirituality; he couldn't make his children live in the cruelty of the real world.

The film doesn't show the poor life to be somehow morally superior to the rich one. This is perfectly represented with the scene about the prostitute's house. The woman herself is kind and welcoming (probably only because of the money), but they don't really find what they're looking for in her basement. They want an escape from the angst-ridden ennui of having too much money, and end up finding someone who is less human because of her need for money.

A strong motif of religious imagery runs throughout the movie. It pits pagan images against Christian images. Christianity is shown in the helicopter- jesus, being imposed from above and not communicating with the people down below. In the episode where the children “see” the Madonna, it is portrayed as extremely manipulative. Paganism is shown in Sylvia, with a connection to animals and childish delight for life. She embraces the media, and in turn they give her “offerings.” This version of Paganism is portrayed as stupid and naive- she can't escape an abusive relationship, come up with her own answers to questions or even stay on one train of thought for more than thirty seconds.

Another idea that the images of religion bring up is celebrity. The media exploits religion the same way they do famous people in the Madonna scene. The crowd acts in a mob-like way- trying to get a handful of the tree before anyone else. They are also shown raising celebrities to the level of gods- the wild dance where they spin Sylvia, the baptism in the fountain, the Paparazzi constantly following them around to document their every move. Fellini asks us- Have gods become mere celebrities in our world today? Or are celebrities the new gods?

Steiner is the most important person in the movie besides Marcello. To Marcello, he represents the ideal life. He has a loving family, an artistic lifestyle, and he encourages Marcello to pursue serious writing. When he kills himself, Marcello seems to lose his drive for finding meaning in life. This brings up the conflict of whether it's good to idolize people or not- after that, Marcello has no ideal life to strive for, only money.

Marcello ends up choosing riches, celebrity, and promiscuity. We disapprove of his life choices, but see why he made them- the other options are not glorified. The girl at the end is the life he could have chosen- humbleness, simplicity, art, and spirituality- waving goodbye to him as he walks away.

La Dolce Vita is ultimately a film that questions everything. Fellini pits different ideas against each other in a critical and non-dogmatic way, ultimately leaving moral judgments up to each individual viewer. Although it is not a literally realistic film, it perfectly captures the experience of living in a confusing universe where there is no absolute morality to rely on- in short, the modern world. The story points out the flaws in everything without providing an easy way out. It’s a call, a challenge to each person watching to try to find their own way of living.

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?

2012 Tarkovsky Prize 1st Place: Abigail Schott-Rosenfield

DOWN BY LAW: What Jack and Zack Don’t Have

by Abigail Schott-Rosenfield

Down By Law is not your conventional action-packed jailbreak film. The convicts’ getaway is understated: we have no idea even how, exactly, they escaped, because the film cuts from the moment the three emerge from their cell to their running full-tilt through some underground passageway. The movie centers not on the moment when the three convicts escape, but on the differences in the ways they live.

The film begins with a montage of New Orleans, backed by Waits’ music. Included in this montage are shots of Jack and Zack returning to their homes after a night out. The shots are strikingly similar. In each, the man walks into a bedroom to an apparently sleeping woman with her back to him. As the man sits down of the bed and begins to remove his clothes, the woman’s eyes flick open—she has been pretending. Roberto (Bob), the third character, is not included in this beginning, which serves to set up the fundamental similarity between Jack and Zack and the foreignness of Bob. Zack and Jack’s rhyming names emphasize their sameness, while Roberto is alien in name, speech, and what he’s in jail for (while Jack and Zack are both framed for crimes they didn’t commit, Bob confesses to having accidentally killed a man).

The first time we meet Bob, he appears seemingly out of nowhere, greeting an inebriated Zack cordially. Zack responds with a mumbled “Buzz off.” Roberto, ever willing to believe the best of everyone (and ever attempting to add new English words to his vocabulary) thinks this is a form of salutation he’s never heard, and, comically, disappears from the screen repeating it—ah, hello, buzz off, buzz off to you to—as if registering it in his internal dictionary.

This first impression of Bob’s humorous, good-natured, childlike cluelessness is the polar opposite of the first impressions of Zack and Jack. Within the first scenes, Jack completely ignores his prostitute’s lengthy monologue, while Zack refuses to respond as his girlfriend berates him for his irresponsibility, throwing various possessions around the room. Bob, on the other hand, walks up to a perfect stranger merely to say hello—and takes the opportunity to learn (so he thinks) to communicate more effectively. Bob has what his fellow escapees don’t: he takes joy in communication, the foundation of healthy relationships and of life.

The final, most striking expression of the difference between Zack and Jack’s and Bob’s ways of life comes in the scene in which Bob dances with his brand-new fiancé, Nicoletta. Within minutes of meeting this woman, he agrees to marry her, is willing to give his large heart to her entirely. As a classic romantic song plays, they are completely absorbed in their dance and in one another. Jack and Zack are excluded from the scene. They sit at the table, apart. They smile, but they are as foreign to the world of simple love as Roberto is to their commitment to being lone wolves, attached to no one.

We sense that they will never be able to enter Bob’s world. Though Bob has given them a second chance by showing them the escape route, befriending them, making sure they don’t tear each other to pieces on the way to freedom, they can never be like him. Roberto stays with the love of his life; Jack and Zack cross the border to Texas and whatever will befall them there. As the movie concludes and they stand at a crossroads, about to part, Zack holds out a hand for Jack. Jack reaches to take it, but Zack pulls away, grinning, at the last second. They laugh. Then they walk down the separate roads. They will probably never meet again. They are as alone as they were when the film began.

Review: Fritz Lang's M

by Lucy Johns, SF Art & Film mentor

It’s still early in the history of cinema. Of the basic technological elements of the new medium – movement, sound, color, the artifice of imagery – only movement is firmly in place. Sound has just appeared. Where is precedent for blending sound and movement? Opera. In Fritz Lang’s “M,” one of the first films out of Germany with sound track, sound is on show, along with a sensational story.

A city of four million is gripped by the horror of a serial child killer. Music introduces the specter in the opening frame as a child sings a lilting threat of kidnapping by a man in black. A mother carrying laundry shouts for her to stop. She doesn’t. When the little singer becomes the next victim, the stage is set for conflict between society and a monstrous outcast who looks, unfortunately, just like everyone else. The police proceed with huge sweeps and household intrusions. The criminal underworld, maddened by the excessive attention, organizes its own troops, including a union of beggars, to find the killer before business is shut down completely. All are stymied until a sound proves the trap that catches the killer.

Building on Wagner’s invention of the musical theme that symbolizes a particular character - the “leitmotif” – “M” introduces the killer with a snatch of “Peer Gynt” whistled as only his hand, writing a taunt to the police, is visible. While the director explores the dramatic potential of tiny sounds (the tap tap tap of a knife hammering a nail) and of long silences overlying strong movement (dozens of men fanning out, soundlessly, through city streets), the killer’s leitmotif pulls the story to its fitting end. It is a masterful irony for film as a visual medium that the killer is caught by a man who cannot see but who recognizes that leitmotif and follows it.

“M” also remains gripping after 80 years thanks to its imagery of the chase and the intellectual challenge of its penultimate scene. As the criminal gang closes in on a vast building, the killer hides amidst dark storage rooms whose open-bar front grills make looking out easy while foiling looking in with shadows and clutter. This complicated interior that connives with bad guys to obstruct good guys became a staple of crime and horror films to come. The people’s court that finally grapples with the killer’s anguished confession might as well be a contemporary jury confronting the alleged etiology of a similar heinous crime. Peter Lorre’s operatic monologue pleads the case for sickness vs. depravity as vividly as one could wish, to as little avail then as now. “M” is an artistic milestone presenting an ageless morality play.

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.

Review: Winter's Bone

by Lucy Johns
July 10, 2010

Layer the brutality of the drug trade on the grinding poverty, endemic lawlessness, and pervasive violence of rural America and you get a vision of American culture foreign to most in an urban audience. "Winter's Bone" is unsparing in its depiction of life in the Ozark Mountains on the brink of heartbreak most of the time. Unsentimental in approach and aesthetics, Debra Granik’s film avoids the romanticization of life among the lower classes that Hollywood often exploits.

The opening scenes establish that a teenager takes brusque but loving care of two very young children. Hers? She gets them up from their mangy couches, feeds them in a wreck of a kitchen, tests them on spelling and addition as they walk to school, watches the youngest draw happily in class. The school shows what they can look forward to as adolescents: parenting and soldiering. Back at the weather-beaten homestead, a pickup arrives. The driver tells Ree - Jennifer Lawrence, not yet 20 when the film was made - that her father has used the home as collateral for bail. If he misses his court date, the family will be evicted within the week. Ree doesn't have much but she has no intention of losing the roof. She sets out to find her dad. She gets no help. She discovers the limits of family and friendship when people have so little. She evokes deception, threats, and violence. When the children return that first day, she teaches the boy, perhaps nine, and the girl, maybe five, how to shoot a double-barreled shotgun, how to skin and eviscerate a squirrel, how to cook venison stew. When the boy asks whether they will eat the squirrel’s entrails, Ree answers, “Not yet.” Her world provides no middle-class choices but she can still protect her charges from barbarism. She is 17.

The film makes no concessions in its depiction of the grim housing, the gritty lives, the hair- trigger tempers, the implacable outside forces that know little and care less about their effects on family life. Since Ree has no transportation – she had to give away her horse because of the price of hay - she walks a lot through trackless woods, repetitive action that slows the film’s momentum at times but that also signifies her resolve despite lack of resources. The filters darkening the landscape to implacable gray-blue underline the unforgiving bleakness of the world she inhabits and confronts. Tight shots and swift editing bring physical attacks close and frightening but never linger. Bodily harm is a way of life in this film, not a titillating technique for audience involvement.

"Winter's Bone" has another story to tell. The focus throughout is on the women of this benighted country, what they learn, know, live with, cope with (or not), how finally they are capable of helping each other if persuaded of the need. They don't persuade easily and they can be as implacable as their men. They know, though, when a task should not be done by a woman and they do their best to dissuade each other from risking their lives. "Don't you have a man to do this?" asks the matriarch at a remote cabin who knows Ree is wrong for the quest she's on. Dale Dickey plays this harridan with such skill one would think she was a local, as many of the characters seem to be. The production credits also feature more women in more varied roles than in the typical commercial film. Written, directed, and produced by women, “Winter’s Bone” projects a sensibility about American life at once respectful and realistic. Not until the very last scene is there a hint that there might be the occasional moment of surcease from sorrow.

This reviewer couldn't help, drenched in the limits of these lives, wondering: how will health insurance reform affect these people? Individual mandate? They will no more abide by this rule than most of the other conventions that prosperous America takes for granted. The only government that touches this culture is the sheriff (who is pretty careful) and the military recruiter (who knows that what he offers is way superior to what he's getting). “Winter’s Bone” reminds that barriers to the pursuit of happiness will persist, perhaps forever, even in the rich, smart, adventurous society America considers itself to be.

©Lucy Johns 2010

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Jillian Lim

THE LAST PICTURE SHOW by Jillian Lim (14)
2016 Tarkovsky Prize, 3rd Place

           “The Last Picture Show” takes place in a dying Texas town in November 1951. Based of the novel of the same name by Larry McMurtry, Peter Bogdanovich directs this tear-jerking, dramatic film about two best friends that are trying to decide their futures before graduation nears. This film will capture your attention with its expressive, striking, black and white scenes and it’s hardships of growing up. The film centralizes on the theme of loneliness, and the coming of age of two high-school seniors.

Sonny Crawford and Duane Jackson are high school seniors and best friends, and as the time to decide on their futures comes near, they both struggle to find a way to escape the dying town and build a better life somewhere else. Duane is in a relationship with Jacy Farrow, the prettiest and wealthiest girl in the town. As Sonny sees their ‘perfect’ relationship, he breaks up with his girlfriend. During Christmas time, he begins an affair with Ruth Popper, who is the depressed wife of his high-school coach. At this point in their lives, Sonny and Duane’s main goal is to be in a successful relationship.

Meanwhile, Jacy, Duane’s girlfriend, is invited to a naked indoor pool party where she meets a boy that states that he’s not interested in virgins, and she could come back after she has had sex. Jacy then realizes that she wants to lose her virginity and seeks the help of her boyfriend. After he fails to preform, Jacy seeks to encounter more men. Jacy is a spoiled girl who gets what she wants. She likes to think that she is in control of her dramatic situations and attempts to make many people as unhappy as she can. But although she has wealth and beauty, she is destined to remain a small town girl.

“The Last Picture Show” is shot in black and white, which helps creates a sense of dread, and melancholy, and gives a special flavor to the realistic atmosphere of the setting. It helps the viewer focus on the content of the story and what is in the frame. Traditionally, white and black can symbolize good and evil and shooting the film in black and white points out the contrasts and could show that there is still hope in all the despair.

It is ultimately a film that shows how a person has to push through different hardships and make the right decisions in order to reach maturity. The film also hints about how the younger generation has little to look forward to, because of their elder’s actions. The small town in north Texas is already dying and decayed and Sonny and Duane feel the need to escape. The film conveys the message that whatever we do now, affects the people in the future. From this film, people can learn to be cautious and know that what they do now will affect the future.

“The Last Picture Show” will capture the minds of people who love a dramatic, bittersweet, evocative film. Although in black in white, it paints a colorful picture in your mind. It will take you on a roller coaster of emotions. Sometimes the tone of a scene is cheerful and bright, but then quickly changes to a desolate, depressing tone. Overall, the film was filled with impressive performances, and invigorating scenes. This film is filled with intriguing drama as the scenes pass by, and will have you reaching for the tissue box.

“The Last Picture Show” is a film worth keeping in your album.

2016 Tarkovsky Prize 3rd Place: Owen Reese

IL POSTO & AMARCORD : Two Views of Growing Up by Owen Reese (16) 
2016 Tarkovsky Prize, 3rd Place

This past year I’ve been exposed to a whole world of foreign cinema I’d never even known existed, and during that time, I’ve fallen in love with a number of Italian films, particularly Il Posto and Amarcord. Both films depict the lives of teenaged boys coming of age in Italy, and both were made in roughly similar time periods (Amarcord in 1973, Il Posto in 1961).

However, despite these similarities, the films couldn’t be more different. Both affected me deeply, but in totally different ways. Il Posto takes place in a crowded, fast-moving city (Milan), but is rather quiet, whereas Amarcord is set in a small, simple town that couldn’t get more lively. The characters inhabiting Il Posto are all sad, helpless, vulnerable people who both literally and figuratively don’t have much color to them, as the film was shot in black and white and none of them have any noticeable spunk. On the other hand Amarcord, which made in full, bright color, has characters that never rest their outrageous and animated personas. My question is, which one is a better representation of the world as I’ve known it?

The obvious answer would be Il Posto because it’s more down to earth and less exaggerated. The real human experience, however, isn’t always as uninteresting as Il Posto makes it seem. The neorealistic style isn’t always realistic, however ironic that sounds. So which is it? Which of these films can be viewed as a more trustworthy image of young life as I’ve known it?

It seems like the protagonists of the two films were almost made to be opposites. In Il Posto, Domenico, the “hero” (it’s hard to describe someone so mild as a hero) is rather introverted and awkward. He doesn’t seem to know what to do in the situations he’s put in, for example the cafe scene, where he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to drink his coffee, so he watched others for reference. He never has too much energy on screen either.

Meanwhile, way over in Amarcord, Titta, the lively teenage protagonist, is extremely extroverted, though we don’t see him as much because he’s often overshadowed by other characters. Amarcord is just littered with crazy personalities, like Gradisca, the village beauty with whom everybody’s in love, Aurelio, the crazy father who’s the only non-fascist in town, and the tobacconist, who shares a particularly unusual scene with Titta.

In Il Posto, Domenico is the only one who has much screen time. Everyone seems to have an important role in a small part of the story, but then gets forgotten in not too much time. This is done to detach the audience from any other characters and make the whole film as depressing and lonely as it was meant to be. Is that like real life? Is everything really that bleak? Or is the world filled with colorful characters like in Amarcord?

In the suburbs where I’ve lived my life, most of the people I meet feel like those in Il Posto: mediocre and unspecial, even if that’s a harsh statement. I see people that don’t seem to have too much passion for life or many interesting traits, people who only care about getting good grades in school to be financially successful later in life. The characters in Il Posto are all held down, forced by circumstance to be soulless, only interested in having a good job, even if it means a long, unchanging life.

Most of the time when I get to know someone, however, they suddenly become just as interesting as any character in Amarcord. I once knew someone who seemed hopelessly boring, like there was nothing interesting going on inside his head. He never talked with enthusiasm or interest about things, as if everything was sort of just bland to him. Over time, though, I learned that he was great at conversation, and had a very unique personality. He just took some getting to know. Only a few people that I truly know are really boring like in the world of Il Posto. Maybe the reason why everyone in that film is how they are is because we, as an audience, never get past the “awkward small talk” stage with them, whereas in Amarcord, we get to see their true colors right off the bat. I think this was intended to point out the way big, industrial companies force the working class people to throw away their heart and soul just to stay afloat in a tough economy. That’s not the whole world, though. There are many other lenses through which a person can look at life, and those are what we see through in Amarcord.

Let’s take a moment to think about the setting. Amarcord takes place in a small, isolated village, where one might expect things to be slow and simple. It is quite to the contrary, though, as Amarcord is a very eventful film full of spectacle and wonder, the kind of vibe I’ve known cities to give off in films I’d previously seen. Il Posto, which is actually set in a city, has a crowded and bustling atmosphere, though the action is very slow and quiet. The black-and-white color scheme really enhances the mood of mediocrity and simplicity. It’s unusual that a vast, complex city holds a simple and small story, and the small, simple town holds a vast and complex story. You would think the tone of a movie would correlate with the setting, but in these two films it does the opposite.

These unusual films show two entirely different cinematic worlds that send opposing messages about what it’s like to grow up. I, personally have lived in a place that feels like Il Posto most of the time. Where I’ve grown up, everything is part of a rather small circle. The advancements in technology I’ve been lucky enough to live with definitely expand that circle and help everyone communicate with a larger world, but only on a digital plane. When I’m really living, experiencing life without using the internet, things do feel small, and the large amounts of people that I see and hear every day minding their own business are sort of just background noise to a contained little story that is my life. Still, there are plenty of characters that I’m surrounded by every day, people that have real significance and add big side stories into my life, making the circle larger.

Although I originally wanted to ask which film was a better representation of the world I’ve grown up in, I can’t. Similarities can be drawn from both Amarcord and Il Posto. Every aspect of each film is at least somewhat like what I know about the real human experience, it’s just that they show opposite sides of that experience. Life isn’t always as solitary and grim as Il Posto makes it out to be, but it also isn’t constantly as bright and exciting as Amarcord shows it. They’re different stories of different people living on the same planet from different perspectives. It’s not that one can be more correct than the other, they’re both correct and incorrect in their own ways, two tales that tell truths about my part of humanity.