The Godfather is a classic, but I only ever watched the beginning (mainly the wedding scene) before tonight. I was impressed by the depth of the characters in the Corleone family and the contrasts made between devotion to family and commitment to following through on business. The Corleone family is headed by Vito Corleone, the godfather, who controls their affairs and their involvement in the mob. The contrast between Vito’s love for his family and the ease with which he commits violence against others (essentially, someone else’s family) is striking. When Vito makes someone an offer they can’t refuse, it means “either his brains or his signature will be on that contract.” This business functions as a means of providing for his family and loved ones, or protecting them. When Vito refuses an offer from a man called Sollozzo, the Corleone family becomes involved in a complicated, and seemingly endless, string of attacks and meetings and murders.
Vito’s youngest son is initially the most innocent of the Corleone sons; He loves his family but wants nothing to do with the family business: “That’s my family, not me.” However, when he finds himself in a position where he is obligated to step up and protect his father, Michael begins a transition of becoming numb to the pain he causes others and increasingly more devoted to the “business.” He reaches a point when he contradicts his previous rejection of the family business, by explaining that his father “is like any powerful man who is responsible for others.” Everything becomes business for Michael, but in the Corleone family business is nearly synonymous with family. Those in the business are part of the family, and anyone who denies their family will lose this protection. The contrast of Michael at the beginning and Michael at the end produces a sobering effect, because after witnessing the succession of deaths and understanding how personal it became, I could understand why he changed. When Michael killed two men, I shared a sense of satisfaction, and when a Corleone was killed, I felt upset and defensive. The Corleone’s drew me in and I sided with them (although not necessarily agreeing with them) because I felt like I knew them.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
the helicopters: cinematography in Apocalypse Now
The points of view in the scene of a helicopter carrying Willard, Lieutenant Kilgore and other soldiers, accompanied in the air by several other American helicopters, created a sense of beauty and excitement that was ironic considering the damage they were about to bring to a school of children.
At times, the camera gave the impression that I was looking out from inside of the helicopter. The shots alternated between the men’s faces. I could see the men situated in various positions and calmly interacting with one another as the sky rushed past their heads. This gave a sense that these men were in control, especially with Willard’s casual body language.
In one of the most impressive shots, the camera was in front of the band of helicopters – pulling away at the same speed that the helicopters were approaching. The background was clearly moving past, but the helicopters remained steady in the frame, pointed towards camera – giving the impression that the helicopters and I were face-to-face. The helicopters were identically dark in color, contrasting with the light sky behind them. I suppose if I wasn’t approaching the scene from the American side, so to speak, this image would be intimidating. Rather, it felt empowering. The number of helicopters and their strong, unwavering approach indicated the authority and power.
The shots of the school, soon to be under attack by the American helicopters, were at high-angles making the Cambodian teachers and students look vulnerable and small from the dominating overhead perspective. There were no close-ups of these individuals – all of the shots were long shots, creating an image of these people as not only small but also anonymous. If we saw their faces, we would know them like we know the American soldiers. Instead, the long shots show individuals running but they stop short of becoming too personal.
This scene, while I remained unsure of the purpose of this short mission, gave a clear indication of the authority and pride of the American soldiers. The scene framed the Americans’ faces, glorified the approach of the helicopters, and trivialized the people under attack.
At times, the camera gave the impression that I was looking out from inside of the helicopter. The shots alternated between the men’s faces. I could see the men situated in various positions and calmly interacting with one another as the sky rushed past their heads. This gave a sense that these men were in control, especially with Willard’s casual body language.
In one of the most impressive shots, the camera was in front of the band of helicopters – pulling away at the same speed that the helicopters were approaching. The background was clearly moving past, but the helicopters remained steady in the frame, pointed towards camera – giving the impression that the helicopters and I were face-to-face. The helicopters were identically dark in color, contrasting with the light sky behind them. I suppose if I wasn’t approaching the scene from the American side, so to speak, this image would be intimidating. Rather, it felt empowering. The number of helicopters and their strong, unwavering approach indicated the authority and power.
The shots of the school, soon to be under attack by the American helicopters, were at high-angles making the Cambodian teachers and students look vulnerable and small from the dominating overhead perspective. There were no close-ups of these individuals – all of the shots were long shots, creating an image of these people as not only small but also anonymous. If we saw their faces, we would know them like we know the American soldiers. Instead, the long shots show individuals running but they stop short of becoming too personal.
This scene, while I remained unsure of the purpose of this short mission, gave a clear indication of the authority and pride of the American soldiers. The scene framed the Americans’ faces, glorified the approach of the helicopters, and trivialized the people under attack.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Apocalypse Now- 'what happened?'
(*spoiler alert)
Apocalyse Now is a film that details the entire journey of Captain Willard as he travels up the river to Cambodia during the Vietnam War to complete a top secret mission. The beginning and end are clear: Willard receives the assignment, he travels up the river and he completes the assignment. We understand that he must kill Colonel Kurtz, an American soldier, but everything that happens in between is completely chaotic. Willard and the four other men sharing the small boat stop along the way for various reasons. They ride a helicopter as it drops bombs on a small village, they stumble upon a group of soldiers who are acting without a leader, and they are nearly mauled by a tiger. In a particularly disturbing interruption, Willard’s boat comes alongside a small boat of Cambodians and the commander orders one of the soldiers to search it. Without warning, one soldier opens fire with a machine gun and another soldier follows his lead until they have shot each Cambodian passenger countless times. When this eruption of gunfire ends, suddenly the men, who ruthlessly killed the passengers, turn their concern to the only surviving woman. Their attention and their emotions switch illogically, and we are never given explanations before the soldiers continue on.
The film becomes progressively violent and odd, and by the end my only thought was, “What just happened?” I was not only confused and overwhelmed by the sequence of events but also disturbed by many of the gruesome images.
But the look on Willard’s face in the final shot indicated the same thought: “What just happened?”
“What did I see? And what did I do?”
His eyes stare forward without blinking and he controls the boat with mechanical motions. The island slowly drifts away in the background, but Willard’s expression never changes. A voice-over speaks the last words of the film, reflecting my feelings and the apparent numbness of Willard: “The horror.”
Apocalyse Now is a film that details the entire journey of Captain Willard as he travels up the river to Cambodia during the Vietnam War to complete a top secret mission. The beginning and end are clear: Willard receives the assignment, he travels up the river and he completes the assignment. We understand that he must kill Colonel Kurtz, an American soldier, but everything that happens in between is completely chaotic. Willard and the four other men sharing the small boat stop along the way for various reasons. They ride a helicopter as it drops bombs on a small village, they stumble upon a group of soldiers who are acting without a leader, and they are nearly mauled by a tiger. In a particularly disturbing interruption, Willard’s boat comes alongside a small boat of Cambodians and the commander orders one of the soldiers to search it. Without warning, one soldier opens fire with a machine gun and another soldier follows his lead until they have shot each Cambodian passenger countless times. When this eruption of gunfire ends, suddenly the men, who ruthlessly killed the passengers, turn their concern to the only surviving woman. Their attention and their emotions switch illogically, and we are never given explanations before the soldiers continue on.
The film becomes progressively violent and odd, and by the end my only thought was, “What just happened?” I was not only confused and overwhelmed by the sequence of events but also disturbed by many of the gruesome images.
But the look on Willard’s face in the final shot indicated the same thought: “What just happened?”
“What did I see? And what did I do?”
His eyes stare forward without blinking and he controls the boat with mechanical motions. The island slowly drifts away in the background, but Willard’s expression never changes. A voice-over speaks the last words of the film, reflecting my feelings and the apparent numbness of Willard: “The horror.”
Sunday, September 20, 2009
framing creates powerful perspectives in Diving Bell
For over a half an hour, I spent the movie peering from behind Jean-Do’s left eye. The fantastic cinematography created such a realistic effect that I felt tense and frustrated at times, as though I was trapped in a body that could not move and was unable to speak. But in an instant, we were snatched out of his paralyzed body and taken to a moment in his former life.
Jean-Do’s therapist, a young woman devoted to communicating with him no matter how tedious it became, sat beside him in the hospital room with a notepad and pencil to dictate his yes or no answers to simple questions. The framing of this scene was confined, alternating between the therapist’s attractive face – specifically her eyes – and her hands clasping the pencil and the paper. Clearly, the framing of a shot indicates exactly what the director would like us to see – mostly her eyes which gaze directly into his. For these moments, he has her undivided attention and, because he has no other distractions, she has his as well. The world outside continues on unnoticed by us because, as far as we are concerned, time is gauged according to the therapist’s questions and Jean-Do’s blinks. There is silence besides her voice, the pencil on paper, and Jean-Do’s audible thoughts, and there is nothing to see except a pair of eyes and hands. The framing has slowed me down and forced me to take notice of the little details of her face.
Jean-Do has barely any movement of his head, limiting his view of this woman to only a level frame of her face and a high-angle frame of her notepad. Within both shots, she nearly fills the frame, narrowing Jean-Do’s world to a single individual – not even able to see the room they are occupying.
With a final frame nearly filled by the therapist’s face, she asks the question that sends him back to a day when his world was too wide and fast to notice anyone’s eyes: “Were you the editor of Elle magazine?”
The framing instantly changes: There is a walkway bordered by strong pillars and the confident stride of a man walking away from the camera, revealing not only the back of his head but the shape of his shoulders and back under a dark sports jacket. Pulling even further away, the next frame is of a building and an expensive car parked along the road. Jean-Do enters an open lobby with high ceilings and bustling photographers and models, and within a sequence of cuts, one of the frames shows us his face. It is not a close-up, like the view we had of the therapist. He is not even in the center of the frame. We see Jean-Do from the waist-up in a medium shot, greeting a photographer and casually taking in his surroundings while he proceeds to move around the room. The frame quickly ends as others soon replace it – frames of a model upon a platform, photo prints tacked on a wall, and designers adjusting models’ wardrobes. This is the sharpest contrast we have yet seen to Jean-Do’s current condition. The wide frames show us more people, movement and color than we saw in all previous scenes combined. His previous life was based in personal interactions and urgent, tight schedules. The speed of his stride and the seconds between each cut indicates the pace of his former lifestyle. Now I further understand his frustration – he has never sat still in his life. Now time is stretching before him and his eye can only focus on one face at a time.
Jean-Do’s therapist, a young woman devoted to communicating with him no matter how tedious it became, sat beside him in the hospital room with a notepad and pencil to dictate his yes or no answers to simple questions. The framing of this scene was confined, alternating between the therapist’s attractive face – specifically her eyes – and her hands clasping the pencil and the paper. Clearly, the framing of a shot indicates exactly what the director would like us to see – mostly her eyes which gaze directly into his. For these moments, he has her undivided attention and, because he has no other distractions, she has his as well. The world outside continues on unnoticed by us because, as far as we are concerned, time is gauged according to the therapist’s questions and Jean-Do’s blinks. There is silence besides her voice, the pencil on paper, and Jean-Do’s audible thoughts, and there is nothing to see except a pair of eyes and hands. The framing has slowed me down and forced me to take notice of the little details of her face.
Jean-Do has barely any movement of his head, limiting his view of this woman to only a level frame of her face and a high-angle frame of her notepad. Within both shots, she nearly fills the frame, narrowing Jean-Do’s world to a single individual – not even able to see the room they are occupying.
With a final frame nearly filled by the therapist’s face, she asks the question that sends him back to a day when his world was too wide and fast to notice anyone’s eyes: “Were you the editor of Elle magazine?”
The framing instantly changes: There is a walkway bordered by strong pillars and the confident stride of a man walking away from the camera, revealing not only the back of his head but the shape of his shoulders and back under a dark sports jacket. Pulling even further away, the next frame is of a building and an expensive car parked along the road. Jean-Do enters an open lobby with high ceilings and bustling photographers and models, and within a sequence of cuts, one of the frames shows us his face. It is not a close-up, like the view we had of the therapist. He is not even in the center of the frame. We see Jean-Do from the waist-up in a medium shot, greeting a photographer and casually taking in his surroundings while he proceeds to move around the room. The frame quickly ends as others soon replace it – frames of a model upon a platform, photo prints tacked on a wall, and designers adjusting models’ wardrobes. This is the sharpest contrast we have yet seen to Jean-Do’s current condition. The wide frames show us more people, movement and color than we saw in all previous scenes combined. His previous life was based in personal interactions and urgent, tight schedules. The speed of his stride and the seconds between each cut indicates the pace of his former lifestyle. Now I further understand his frustration – he has never sat still in his life. Now time is stretching before him and his eye can only focus on one face at a time.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
impressed by The Diving Bell and The Butterfly
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is the story of a man who said his imagination and his memories were the only part of him, besides his left eye, not paralyzed. Jean Dominique Bauby is capable of only blinking one eye after waking from a coma caused by a stroke. With vision that fluctuates between blurry and sharp, I see the faces of doctors and therapists as Jean-Do sees them. The colors are dull and there are a series of extreme close-up shots, when the staff speaks to him or examines him, filling nearly our entire view of the small hospital room. Images of a man stranded within a diving suit and floating in the ocean flicker onto the screen, with Jean-Do’s panicked face visible through the metal helmet and only his strained breathing heard.
When Jean-Do is introduced to a therapist who teaches him to speak with the flutter of his eyelids, indicating a letter by blinking if it is spoken, one of the first sentences he constructs is: “I want death.”
Later, this depression is contrasted by his uplifted spirits evidenced when a young woman named Claude arrives to work with Jean-Do to transcribe the book that he composes and memorizes in his mind. He made a contract to write a book before suffering the stroke and he would like to see it through.
When Claude perches beside his hospital bed with pencil and notebook in hand, the camera pans out into a long shot. We no longer feel confined by the close faces speaking within Jean-Do’s line of vision. Instead, we see the entire room which includes Claude’s full body sitting on a chair, Jean-Do’s outstretched body including his red sweater, and two vases of colorful flowers on the bureau. This is the first bright and visually pleasing scene of the film. Jean-Do finds a release through expression of his feelings and thoughts and by creating metaphors.
It is in Jean-Do’s imagination that we see color and hear excited voices and energetic movement. He remembers skiing down a mountain, visiting cities in Italy, and he envisions kissing Claude. If it wasn’t for these bursts of life and stimulation, the film might be unbearable. Jean-Do’s inner voice often speaks out in protest or answers a doctor’s question, but no one can hear him. One scene is filled with the persistent, piercing screech coming from a television station that has lost a signal. Jean-Do lies unmoving in his bed with only his eye darting around in his head. The room is dark and unmoving. He has no power to stop the noise and no way to escape it. I could barely endure it: My pulse quickened as his wide eye flickered back and forth and the deafening sound continued to buzz.
Whenever it seemed too monotonous or depressing, scenes filled with sunlight and beautiful camera angles lit up the screen.
While I found myself frustrated or even inclined to avert my eyes in scenes when Jean-Do was in the hospital bed, I appreciated their importance and the effort to include me in his personal perspective. Without them, I might look at his face with the same misunderstanding as the electricians who entered his hospital room and laughed at his condition.
The balance established by the interjection of scenes such as a breezy, sunny day at the beach was enough to lift my spirits when Jean-Do felt hopeful. I couldn’t look away as I saw the mother of Jean-Do’s children through his eyes – with her hair flipping from the ocean breeze and their kids running across the sand within view behind her face. The cinematography was enthralling, and I’ve never walked away from a movie with such gratitude for my moving legs.
When Jean-Do is introduced to a therapist who teaches him to speak with the flutter of his eyelids, indicating a letter by blinking if it is spoken, one of the first sentences he constructs is: “I want death.”
Later, this depression is contrasted by his uplifted spirits evidenced when a young woman named Claude arrives to work with Jean-Do to transcribe the book that he composes and memorizes in his mind. He made a contract to write a book before suffering the stroke and he would like to see it through.
When Claude perches beside his hospital bed with pencil and notebook in hand, the camera pans out into a long shot. We no longer feel confined by the close faces speaking within Jean-Do’s line of vision. Instead, we see the entire room which includes Claude’s full body sitting on a chair, Jean-Do’s outstretched body including his red sweater, and two vases of colorful flowers on the bureau. This is the first bright and visually pleasing scene of the film. Jean-Do finds a release through expression of his feelings and thoughts and by creating metaphors.
It is in Jean-Do’s imagination that we see color and hear excited voices and energetic movement. He remembers skiing down a mountain, visiting cities in Italy, and he envisions kissing Claude. If it wasn’t for these bursts of life and stimulation, the film might be unbearable. Jean-Do’s inner voice often speaks out in protest or answers a doctor’s question, but no one can hear him. One scene is filled with the persistent, piercing screech coming from a television station that has lost a signal. Jean-Do lies unmoving in his bed with only his eye darting around in his head. The room is dark and unmoving. He has no power to stop the noise and no way to escape it. I could barely endure it: My pulse quickened as his wide eye flickered back and forth and the deafening sound continued to buzz.
Whenever it seemed too monotonous or depressing, scenes filled with sunlight and beautiful camera angles lit up the screen.
While I found myself frustrated or even inclined to avert my eyes in scenes when Jean-Do was in the hospital bed, I appreciated their importance and the effort to include me in his personal perspective. Without them, I might look at his face with the same misunderstanding as the electricians who entered his hospital room and laughed at his condition.
The balance established by the interjection of scenes such as a breezy, sunny day at the beach was enough to lift my spirits when Jean-Do felt hopeful. I couldn’t look away as I saw the mother of Jean-Do’s children through his eyes – with her hair flipping from the ocean breeze and their kids running across the sand within view behind her face. The cinematography was enthralling, and I’ve never walked away from a movie with such gratitude for my moving legs.
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