I caught this wonderful Danish film at the tail end of the 2012 AFI film fest. It is what it claims to be: a film about the hijacking of a Danish ship, and about the subsequent negotiations between the pirates and the company's CEO, Peter Ludvigsen (played stoically by Soren Malling).
I particularly loved the work of the sound department, Morten Green and Oskar Skriver, who introduce auditory elements that are at once very real, and very new to cinema.
There are quite a few scenes in which the Peter speaks on the phone with the man claiming to be the pirate's "negotiator", a shrewd manipulator named Omar (who, as yet, is not credited on IMDB, which only lists a cast of six, although there were at least a dozen speaking roles in the film). These conversations are had on a speaker-phone, so the rest of the response team in Denmark can listen in, and presumably, so that we can listen in as well. They are tense, of course, and they look pretty much standard, as far as tense hostage negotiation phone calls go. But they sound very different.
This is a long-distance call, probably via satellite, to a ship in the Indian Ocean, and we hear that vast distance. The calls are full of pops, whistles and static. Most notably, every time Peter speaks, he hears his own echo a second later (something we may be familiar with as an occasional glitch with our cell phones, or with Skype). The absolutely amazing part of it, though, is that we can still understand what Peter is saying. The choice of sounds, and the way they're mixed together make it so that despite the noise, the voices are clear. This, to me, is a major accomplishment for the sound team, and something I've never heard in a movie before. Usually, voices are clear and there isn't much noise, or the noise is apparent and it's hard to make out the words being spoken.
Be nice to see what the director, Tobias Lindholm, comes up with next... I hope he keeps the same sound team!
-AzS
ADDED 6/25/2013: I wrote an additional musing about "A Hijacking" around the time of its US theatrical release, published at Musing Pictures' new home, MaxIt Magazine: http://maxitmagazine.com/columns/musing-pictures/524-a-hijacking
Friday, November 09, 2012
Thursday, November 08, 2012
Trailer Talk: "World War Z"
The recently released trailer for "World War Z" utilizes a similar musical motif to that used by "Promethius", but not to the same effect.
First, the Prometheus trailer. Listen, particularly, to the music in the final 20 seconds:
Next World War Z, listen at 1:50:
No, it's not the same sound, but they're definitely imitating.
When the Prometheus trailer hit theaters, the web buzzed with anticipation, and much of the talk had to do with that primal, primitive, scream-like sound used in the trailer's music. People bought the soundtrack before seeing the film, hoping to get that haunting, frightening score, but as it turns out, it was just a music track the trailer-editing company dropped in to the trailer, and did not come from the film at all.
I think the "World War Z" trailer is clearly imitating the effect used in the "Prometheus" trailer, but whereas the "Prometheus" effect sounds like a weird, alien scream, the musical effect in the "World War Z" trailer just sounds like a slightly upset whale. I don't think it works here -- at least, not nearly as powerfully or viscerally as in the "Prometheus" trailer.
That's not to say that "World War Z" doesn't look exciting. But if you're going to "borrow" a creative impulse from an earlier source (and let's face it, much of art requires this kind of "borrowing"), make sure it works in the context of what you're doing!
Frankly, with the ant-swarm-like imagery, I think something more in-line with the snake-pit music from "Raiders of the Lost Ark" might have been creepier...
What do you think?
-AzS
Next World War Z, listen at 1:50:
No, it's not the same sound, but they're definitely imitating.
When the Prometheus trailer hit theaters, the web buzzed with anticipation, and much of the talk had to do with that primal, primitive, scream-like sound used in the trailer's music. People bought the soundtrack before seeing the film, hoping to get that haunting, frightening score, but as it turns out, it was just a music track the trailer-editing company dropped in to the trailer, and did not come from the film at all.
I think the "World War Z" trailer is clearly imitating the effect used in the "Prometheus" trailer, but whereas the "Prometheus" effect sounds like a weird, alien scream, the musical effect in the "World War Z" trailer just sounds like a slightly upset whale. I don't think it works here -- at least, not nearly as powerfully or viscerally as in the "Prometheus" trailer.
That's not to say that "World War Z" doesn't look exciting. But if you're going to "borrow" a creative impulse from an earlier source (and let's face it, much of art requires this kind of "borrowing"), make sure it works in the context of what you're doing!
Frankly, with the ant-swarm-like imagery, I think something more in-line with the snake-pit music from "Raiders of the Lost Ark" might have been creepier...
What do you think?
-AzS
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Musing Pictures: The Rules of the Game (1939)
I was fortunate to catch Jean Renoir's 1939 classic, "The Rules of the Game" at this year's AFI Film Festival. They showed a very watchable, newly restored print of the French film. I say "very watchable" because many earlier prints were in very bad shape (including those from which VHS and early DVD copies were made.) The film itself has a unique and unusual story -- it was thought to be lost when the originals were destroyed during allied bombing in World War II. After the war, bits and pieces of the film were reassembled from partial copies and fragments, often with Renoir's explicit feedback. It added a layer of magic to see a film that was really a re-construction of itself. There's no way to know how close the re-construction is to the original. Would we think Frankenstein's monster was a human if we had never seen a human?
I wonder this, too, because I can't imagine an artist, given the opportunity to tweak his own work, would re-construct it (or agree to its re-construction) without tinkering here and there. I know that if I were to re-construct any of my own films, they would all certainly take on slightly different forms. Some scenes might be cut short, others might be re-arranged. And it's not always the best thing for the movie.
We see this, in a different way, with re-releases of certain films. When Lucas restored "Star Wars" in the '90s, he re-released those films with significant changes. What we got to see in theaters weren't merely restorations, but updates -- films that contained scenes and effects that never came close to appearing in the original. As a result, some of the power of "Star Wars" got somewhat drained out of the film: Han Solo's famous shot in the Cantina is somehow fired in self-defense, the creatures of the film which were once so tangible (because they were puppets) are now ethereal (because they're CGI animation), etc. When Spielberg restored and re-released ET, we were presented with some cute scenes that weren't a part of the original film. Also, the police officers who had been toting guns originally, were now holding walkie-talkies. The sense of jeopardy just isn't the same.
How can we know that Renoir's re-constructed film is true to his original creation? Frankly, we can't. The original is lost, and was actually seen by very few to begin with. In this particular case, it's the re-construction itself that is the masterpiece.
-AzS
I wonder this, too, because I can't imagine an artist, given the opportunity to tweak his own work, would re-construct it (or agree to its re-construction) without tinkering here and there. I know that if I were to re-construct any of my own films, they would all certainly take on slightly different forms. Some scenes might be cut short, others might be re-arranged. And it's not always the best thing for the movie.
We see this, in a different way, with re-releases of certain films. When Lucas restored "Star Wars" in the '90s, he re-released those films with significant changes. What we got to see in theaters weren't merely restorations, but updates -- films that contained scenes and effects that never came close to appearing in the original. As a result, some of the power of "Star Wars" got somewhat drained out of the film: Han Solo's famous shot in the Cantina is somehow fired in self-defense, the creatures of the film which were once so tangible (because they were puppets) are now ethereal (because they're CGI animation), etc. When Spielberg restored and re-released ET, we were presented with some cute scenes that weren't a part of the original film. Also, the police officers who had been toting guns originally, were now holding walkie-talkies. The sense of jeopardy just isn't the same.
How can we know that Renoir's re-constructed film is true to his original creation? Frankly, we can't. The original is lost, and was actually seen by very few to begin with. In this particular case, it's the re-construction itself that is the masterpiece.
-AzS
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Musing Pictures: H+ Episode 15
No, it's not a movie. It's an episode of Brian Singer's web series on YouTube. But I was struck by something here -- let's see if you see it, too.
Robert Altman is considered a pioneer of overlapping dialog, scenes in which several characters hold parallel conversations at the same time. Altman made sure to put microphones on all of his characters, so when it came time to mix the audio, he could bring up a word here or a phrase there, and guide our listening. We'd hear a cacophony of voices, but with Altman's help, we'd be able to tease out the bits of each conversation that were important.
Singer, in this episode of "H+", seems to be playing a similar game. The conceit, of course, is that characters have computers implanted in their brains that allow them to communicate with each other, "digitally", in addition to their face-to-face interactions, as if they have Skype in their heads.
In this scene, I count at least three conversations, possibly four or five, two of which we are at least partially privy to. There's the verbal conversation about the patient and her baby, and that's the obvious (and standard) conversation. Then, there's the bearded guy on the right, who seems to be communicating via notes to someone else on the network. The other bearded guy, clearly distracted, seems to be communicating with someone, too, and the patient is either communicating or observing something through her own implant.
What struck me here is that unlike Altman's scenes, where we need to listen to multiple conversations, but where we are guided to what we should pay attention to, here we have two modes of communication: verbal and written, and it appears that we need to pay attention to both. We're not given one over the other, in the way Altman might mix certain words or phrases so they're clearer than the babble in the room. It's confusing, but it's also very well-integrated in to the narrative itself: The implants provide people with multiple, simultaneous layers of information, sometimes to the point of distraction. And that, of course, is a stand-in for our experience of the internet, a vast source of all the information in the world, available to us all at once, but how could we possibly process it all? Are we being overwhelmed by information?
What I don't know is whether or not the effect is intentional here, or is it yet another side-effect of the information age?
-AzS
Robert Altman is considered a pioneer of overlapping dialog, scenes in which several characters hold parallel conversations at the same time. Altman made sure to put microphones on all of his characters, so when it came time to mix the audio, he could bring up a word here or a phrase there, and guide our listening. We'd hear a cacophony of voices, but with Altman's help, we'd be able to tease out the bits of each conversation that were important.
Singer, in this episode of "H+", seems to be playing a similar game. The conceit, of course, is that characters have computers implanted in their brains that allow them to communicate with each other, "digitally", in addition to their face-to-face interactions, as if they have Skype in their heads.
In this scene, I count at least three conversations, possibly four or five, two of which we are at least partially privy to. There's the verbal conversation about the patient and her baby, and that's the obvious (and standard) conversation. Then, there's the bearded guy on the right, who seems to be communicating via notes to someone else on the network. The other bearded guy, clearly distracted, seems to be communicating with someone, too, and the patient is either communicating or observing something through her own implant.
What struck me here is that unlike Altman's scenes, where we need to listen to multiple conversations, but where we are guided to what we should pay attention to, here we have two modes of communication: verbal and written, and it appears that we need to pay attention to both. We're not given one over the other, in the way Altman might mix certain words or phrases so they're clearer than the babble in the room. It's confusing, but it's also very well-integrated in to the narrative itself: The implants provide people with multiple, simultaneous layers of information, sometimes to the point of distraction. And that, of course, is a stand-in for our experience of the internet, a vast source of all the information in the world, available to us all at once, but how could we possibly process it all? Are we being overwhelmed by information?
What I don't know is whether or not the effect is intentional here, or is it yet another side-effect of the information age?
-AzS
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Musing Pictures: Split: A Deeper Divide
Twice today, I encountered the media blaming itself for divisiveness in American politics. First, on the radio, an NPR show (possibly "On the Media", but I'm not certain), the anchor wrapped up a presentation on misinformation in campaign advertisements with a hesitant conclusion: "I blame the media!" I heard this on the way to a screening of the documentary, "Split: A Deeper Divide," produced by my friend, Jeff Beard.
"Split" explores the rancorous and divisive tone taken by American politics in recent years. It suggests numerous reasons for this polarization, including the media's need to play to increasingly specific and narrowly defined target audiences. Basically, with so many media options, it's more cost effective for news providers to tailor their news to a narrowly defined audience, rather than trying to provide a more broad-based message.
It's intriguing to me to encounter media that challenges The Media in this regard. I heard it in the anchor's voice on the NPR radio show: an awareness of the irony, and perhaps of the mild hypocrisy of stating "I blame the media" on the air. The statement is itself a blanket accusation, leveled flatly, without nuance, at an entire, enormous, diverse industry. Isn't that the kind of new communication style that the media thrives on these days, that feeds audience's hunger for tension, for a good fight?
One of the things I appreciate about "Split" is that it takes a very even, non-judgmental look at the factors that contribute to American political divisiveness. It blames the media without needing to resort to the blanket statement "I blame the media!" Of course, in an atmosphere informed by stand-offish argumentativeness, this gives the film a bit of a dated feel, as if it's a '70s schoolroom film-strip, rather than a twenty-first century documentary. But in a way, that's the best part about it. It's not cynical about its own message (even if it is The Media, and as such, part of the problem.)
"Split" is making its way to various cities this election year. If you're looking to understand what's making this country suffocate on its own hot air, I'd encourage you to check the film out. The screening schedule is available on the film's website.
And for a snapshot, here's the trailer:
-AzS
"Split" explores the rancorous and divisive tone taken by American politics in recent years. It suggests numerous reasons for this polarization, including the media's need to play to increasingly specific and narrowly defined target audiences. Basically, with so many media options, it's more cost effective for news providers to tailor their news to a narrowly defined audience, rather than trying to provide a more broad-based message.
It's intriguing to me to encounter media that challenges The Media in this regard. I heard it in the anchor's voice on the NPR radio show: an awareness of the irony, and perhaps of the mild hypocrisy of stating "I blame the media" on the air. The statement is itself a blanket accusation, leveled flatly, without nuance, at an entire, enormous, diverse industry. Isn't that the kind of new communication style that the media thrives on these days, that feeds audience's hunger for tension, for a good fight?
One of the things I appreciate about "Split" is that it takes a very even, non-judgmental look at the factors that contribute to American political divisiveness. It blames the media without needing to resort to the blanket statement "I blame the media!" Of course, in an atmosphere informed by stand-offish argumentativeness, this gives the film a bit of a dated feel, as if it's a '70s schoolroom film-strip, rather than a twenty-first century documentary. But in a way, that's the best part about it. It's not cynical about its own message (even if it is The Media, and as such, part of the problem.)
"Split" is making its way to various cities this election year. If you're looking to understand what's making this country suffocate on its own hot air, I'd encourage you to check the film out. The screening schedule is available on the film's website.
And for a snapshot, here's the trailer:
-AzS
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Musing Pictures: Looper
Like any really good sci-fi, "Looper" (directed by Rian Johnson, whose debut feature, Brick, is the millennial generation's El Mariachi) isn't really about science fiction. Instead, it takes a common, compelling narrative theme (in this case, the "what if?" scenario of second chances) and re-frames it literally, using the elements of sci-fi to accomplish what "regular" fiction can only do with metaphors.
Time travel represents a unique narrative opportunity (paradoxes aside) to push "what if?" scenarios to the extreme. What if you could go back in time to rectify a past wrong? To make bad things better? To intercede on your own behalf, or on behalf of others?
Undeveloped narratives (such as my own film, "Paradox in Purple", made in 11th grade) focus on the paradox itself, using it as a cautionary mechanism: don't mess with the past (as if we could!) lest your changes come back to haunt you! In real terms, it's a caution not to worry ourselves with the past, since the path that leads to our present is complex beyond our capacity to comprehend. The paradox-centric time travel narrative is there to pacify those of us who wish we had done things differently, or that others had done things differently on our behalf. We rest easier at night knowing that our present coordinates are the sum of far more complex elements than a few moments in time.
"Looper" is a mature time travel narrative. The paradox is not the obsessive focus of the story, and the painful lesson that the past is unchangeable is not a part of this film. "Looper" avoids the issue by keeping its story rooted in "the past". "The Terminator" does the same thing, posing the same fundamental question: If we know the future, and we know it's bad, what is the extent of our responsibility to change it? In other words, rather than asking "what if we could change the past?" the film asks "what if we could change the future?"
What I like about "Looper" is that it pushes this question to such an extreme that it becomes, yet again, something the ancient philosophers obsessed about: Is preemptive punishment justified? Even when you know the details and extent of the future crime? "Minority Report" asks this question directly, in a more judicial context. "Looper" brings it around and makes it personal: If you know something terrible will happen, how responsible are you to prevent it, given the chance?
In "Looper," Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Bruce Willis (who both play the same character, thirty years apart) have different takes on the answer to that question. But the film doesn't leave us feeling certain that either of them was entirely right or entirely wrong. The moral answer to the age-old question remains murky, and we've been left to continue pondering it for ourselves.
I think that's the profound sensation I felt when I left the theater: the sense that a profound question about responsibility and fate had been asked, but not answered. It's not an unsatisfying sensation, because the story itself concludes clearly and cleanly, but it's unfamiliar, because most films these days take pains to come to a moral footing when their narratives conclude. Johnson's background in Noir ("Brick" is firmly rooted in the '40s genre) may have something to do with the moral open-endedness, but "Looper" doesn't suggest a dark world without morality. It suggests a world much like our own, where morality exists and motivates us, but doesn't make itself clear when the difficult decisions need to be made.
-AzS
Time travel represents a unique narrative opportunity (paradoxes aside) to push "what if?" scenarios to the extreme. What if you could go back in time to rectify a past wrong? To make bad things better? To intercede on your own behalf, or on behalf of others?
Undeveloped narratives (such as my own film, "Paradox in Purple", made in 11th grade) focus on the paradox itself, using it as a cautionary mechanism: don't mess with the past (as if we could!) lest your changes come back to haunt you! In real terms, it's a caution not to worry ourselves with the past, since the path that leads to our present is complex beyond our capacity to comprehend. The paradox-centric time travel narrative is there to pacify those of us who wish we had done things differently, or that others had done things differently on our behalf. We rest easier at night knowing that our present coordinates are the sum of far more complex elements than a few moments in time.
"Looper" is a mature time travel narrative. The paradox is not the obsessive focus of the story, and the painful lesson that the past is unchangeable is not a part of this film. "Looper" avoids the issue by keeping its story rooted in "the past". "The Terminator" does the same thing, posing the same fundamental question: If we know the future, and we know it's bad, what is the extent of our responsibility to change it? In other words, rather than asking "what if we could change the past?" the film asks "what if we could change the future?"
What I like about "Looper" is that it pushes this question to such an extreme that it becomes, yet again, something the ancient philosophers obsessed about: Is preemptive punishment justified? Even when you know the details and extent of the future crime? "Minority Report" asks this question directly, in a more judicial context. "Looper" brings it around and makes it personal: If you know something terrible will happen, how responsible are you to prevent it, given the chance?
In "Looper," Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Bruce Willis (who both play the same character, thirty years apart) have different takes on the answer to that question. But the film doesn't leave us feeling certain that either of them was entirely right or entirely wrong. The moral answer to the age-old question remains murky, and we've been left to continue pondering it for ourselves.
I think that's the profound sensation I felt when I left the theater: the sense that a profound question about responsibility and fate had been asked, but not answered. It's not an unsatisfying sensation, because the story itself concludes clearly and cleanly, but it's unfamiliar, because most films these days take pains to come to a moral footing when their narratives conclude. Johnson's background in Noir ("Brick" is firmly rooted in the '40s genre) may have something to do with the moral open-endedness, but "Looper" doesn't suggest a dark world without morality. It suggests a world much like our own, where morality exists and motivates us, but doesn't make itself clear when the difficult decisions need to be made.
-AzS
Friday, September 21, 2012
Musing Pictures: The Master
In PT Anderson's "The Master", one thing that stood out to me was the way certain scenes were staged. On several occasions throughout the film, we are presented with a small crowd of ten or twenty people, and out of that crowd, one character stands out sharply. Often, these are point-of-view shots, and the character that stands out does so by looking at the camera, at us, at the character through which we're observing the scene. It's an interesting and subtly unnerving effect, one I expect to see more in horror/thrillers than in dramas.
In general, the blocking and framing in "The Master" is interesting to note. The aspect ratio is not especially wide (and why should it be? we're generally looking at people, rather than scenery) so groups of people have to clump together. Some scenes reminded me of the way John Ford would clump his characters, always a little too close to seem real, but always just far enough apart to avoid "staginess".
-AzS
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