Visconti's Risorgimento: Class Structure in Senso and The Leopard

Count Luchino Visconti di Madrone is universally considered to be one of the most brilliant and influential figures in Italian cinematic culture. His films are passionate and operatic, allowing his impulse to recreate history on film to bloom with vibrant intensity. Visconti’s historical preoccupation reappears consistently throughout his filmography. Visconti had an especially interesting historical relationship with the Risorgimento, seemingly fascinated by its deep cultural implications. The rigorously complex process of Italian unification stretched broadly from 1813 to 1918, lasting more than one hundred years. This tumultuous period of time saw great chaos and change for Italy; it represents an attempt for the country to define an Italian identity that was not based on arbitrarily drawn political boundaries or geography.

The complexity of the Risorgimento in Italy is such that it is difficult to comprehend from all perspectives. It marks a definite and permanent shift in Italian history, bringing the disparate, culturally diverse city-states of the South together with the Savoy-ruled North, marking the first time that Italy could be considered a wholly unified country. The immensity of this moment in Italian history, the process of the Risorgimento and the struggle to materialize a national identity, is incredibly evident in Italian art and culture. As cinema is a major expression of Italian culture, it is not surprising that many filmmakers, Visconti amongst them, choose to focus on this riotous period of history.

Visconti made two films which examined the Risorgimento, Senso, released in 1954, and The Leopard, released in 1963. Both of these films examine the social and political implications of the Risorgimento from an aristocratic perspective. This is hardly surprising, considering Visconti himself was deeply rooted with the traditional Italian nobility; Luchino Visconti di Modrone was born to the Grand Duke of Modrone in Milan, and carried the title of Count of Lonate Pozzolo. Although both Senso and The Leopard explore the Risorgimento from differing geographical and temporal perspectives (Senso takes place in and around Venice during 1866, and The Leopard is set in Sicily during 1860), both films are valuable as interesting representations of Visconti’s relationship with the Italy of the Risorgimento.

Visconti displays a similar perspective in both films in the relationship between social class and the events of the Risorgimento. History agrees that the process of Italian unification was largely conceived and executed by the upper middle class and the nobility; the Italian peasantry remained largely unaware and isolated from the political and social upheaval. This fact is illustrated by both Senso and The Leopard. Both films chronicle a society in flux, and as these massive changes start to materialize, the social and political prominence of the traditional Italian aristocracy begins to fade.

The Leopard is especially effective at tracing the inevitable downfall of the ruling class through the character of Fabrizio Corbero, Prince of Salina. The Prince stands in for the entire Italian ruling class; the audience watches him grapple with, and eventually accept, the overturning of the old order in favor of the new. As the Prince ages, so too does the Italian aristocracy; this process of decay eventually culminates in the final ballroom scene.

Here, Visconti shows the audience the new order, in the form of the young Angelica and Tancredi, who represent those who approach the changing balance of power by adapting to the circumstances. Tancredi, for example, capriciously changes his allegiance from the Garibaldini to the Italian army after determining it to be to his benefit. This new class is in stark contrast to the Prince and the traditional nobility which he represents. Tancredi and his brethren are those who have no real values, but strategically manipulate in order to retain power and influence; they are jackals and hyenas watching as the leopards and the lions of the traditional gentry fade.

As Angelica and the Prince dance together at the ball, Visconti simultaneously shows us the last waltz of the dying nobility. Opulence and pride remain, but underneath, the audience is still able to sense the underlying element of decay. Here, the Prince comes to the realization that he is the last of his kind, that he and aristocrats like him will soon be replaced by a rising middle class of shopkeepers and merchants; the functions of Italian society and politics will no longer be dictated by the once great nobility. According to The Leopard’s screenwriter Enrico Medioli, the ballroom scene is “a funeral march, a funereal moment. It’s the end of a society with all the vices and cruelties of such a society.” And it is indeed the end, as the Prince contemplates his own mortality, and thus the ephemerality of his class and his way of life. In the end, The Leopard can be interpreted as an exercise in lamentation for an entire social class whose way of life was lost in the pre-Risorgimento past.

Visconti’s dissection of the Risorgimento’s effects on the social order are also evident in Senso, a lush melodrama and one of Visconti’s most highly regarded cinematic efforts. The historical circumstance of social classes is an important element from the first scene, where the audience witnesses a partisan protest interrupt a performance of Verdi’s Il Travatore, in the legendary opera house La Fenice. As the camera pans around the theater, it is clear that the seats are organized here by class- occupying Austrian officers sit in the orchestra, while the highest and least expensive seats, belong to the middle class. And here, in the highest seats, is where the protest originates- pro-revolutionary pamphlets and carnations in the color of the Italian flag are thrown down to the orchestra. The interaction of different classes, and the role of class in the context of the Risorgimento, maintains a constant presence in Senso even from the opening scenes.

Senso displays the same aristocratic perspective as The Leopard; its protagonist is the beautiful Italian nationalist Countess Livia Serpieri, caught in a passionate and ultimately tragic love affair with occupying Austrian officer Franz Mahler. As in The Leopard, Visconti is able to clearly demonstrate the involvement of the aristocracy in the revolutionary efforts of the Risorgimento. Livia’s cousin, partisan leader Roberto Ussoni, uses the money of his social status to finance the revolutionary efforts of the nationalists. This money is given to Livia to hold for safe-keeping. However, Livia eventually gives this money to Franz after he asks for money to bribe a doctor to be declared unfit for combat. This exemplifies another aspect of class demonstrated in Senso; Mahler is shown to manipulate Livia, using fabricated love and dishonest passion to benefit from the Countess’s  access to money and her high social standing.

Senso’s examination of the status of the aristocracy during the Risorgimento is one that is echoed in The Leopard more than ten years later. When Livia discovers that Franz has been using her money to rent a lavish apartment and pay for food and a prostitute, there is a passionate confrontation between the two, where Mahler drunkenly reveals both his manipulation and his disdain for her weaknesses. One of the most significant elements in his speech occurs when he is castigating Livia for her betrayal of country and principle. “An entire world will vanish,” Franz says, as he is surrounded by luxury and decadence, “the one that you and I belong to.” Here, there is a distinct repetition of The Leopard’s lament at the passing of aristocracy into oblivion, a decline of the old way of life which culminates in the death of the gentry and the genesis of a new order, all powered by the drastic changes associated with the Risorgimento.

The declining state of the Italian nobility, which Visconti portrays so eloquently in Senso and The Leopard, is accentuated by the meticulous art direction and set design of both films. Both make use of dignified, historical, and grandiose sets: La Teatro Fenice and La Villa Godi Malinverni in The Leopard, for example. The historical, ancient beauty of these sets suggests a kind of sensuous luxury, creating a haunting parallelism to the characters which inhabit them. Countess Livia and the Prince of Salina inhabit the sets like ghosts; they are representations of the last fading vestige of the influence of the gentry.

 The lushness of the sets reveal invaluable information about those characters that inhabit them. Visconti occupies the film with sumptuous fabrics and costumes, rich furnishings, and luxurious artwork, all meticulously chosen to draw the audience’s attention to the dying splendor a social class which is soon to disappear. Cumulatively, in both Senso and The Leopard, the sets and props generate a detailed sense of time and place, bestowing a historical gravity upon the world which these characters inhabit. More importantly, though, their lushness and luxury draws our attention to the wealth of the ruling class. But underneath all of the grandeur, there is a distinct sense of decay: the fabrics are too rich, the sets too majestic. We see the theatricality of the lives of the aristocracy; beauty is pervasive in this lifestyle, but there is also an underlying implication of deterioration in the rich colors and textures of the velvet and ever present gilding. The viewer can intuit an imminent decay, in both the décor itself and the class which embraces it.

Visconti’s continual return to the Risorgimento as subject matter, as well as his preoccupation with the tumultuous nature of social classes during this time, can be attributed to his noble birth. Born Luchino Visconti di Madrone, Count of Lonate Pozzolo, Visconti was surrounded by the historical weight of the aristocracy. Visconti spent his life immersed in the luxury presented in both Senso and The Leopard; in itself, this lends a certain element of authenticity to the films. It can be assumed that he identified personally on some level with characters like the Prince of Salina and the Countess Livia, for there is a subtle sense of compassion imbued within his portrayal. Subsequently, the audience is persuaded to sympathize with the characters as we witness a way of life fading into the past.

The Leopard and Senso demonstrate Visconti’s ability to smoothly and impactfully superimpose the personal onto the historical. The filmmaker is able to take emotional subjective narratives, such as that of Countess Livia, rife with passion and betrayal, and set them against a backdrop of universal historical significance, such as the Risorgimento. Visconti uses Senso and The Leopard to interweave complex tales of manipulation, betrayal and love with a higher sense of the history of the Risorgimento, embedding the political and the historical with a cutting sense of personal emotion. This fusing of the personal and the historical makes Senso and The Leopard, as well as a majority of Visconti’s other filmography, incredibly impactful.

Visconti enables the viewer to relate to the characters and their tragedies on an emotional level while simultaneously recognizing the larger implications of history. As he deals with the thematic elements of changing social class in the midst of the chaos of the Risorgimento, he is able to create beautiful and emotionally devastating films which underline the significance of the past.

Is 35mm Film Really a Dead Medium?

We live in a society that indisputably thrives on technology. Nowhere is this more evident than in the entertainment industry, especially in the film business. Studios and theaters are undergoing a rapid process of conversion from 35mm film to digital that began in 2008. Companies that used to rely on 35mm are scaling back or ceasing production of film-related products altogether. This progression of technology brings up some very pressing concerns about the proper preservation of movies that were produced before the advent of digital. Not only is the conversion from print to digital increasingly more inconvenient and expensive (making a black-and-white print costs around $50,000), it is also difficult to produce a true-to-original digital replica of the print.

Filmmakers and cinephiles are split on the relative benefits and detriments of film and digital. David Lynch is a huge proponent of digital media (Inland Empire was shot entirely on digital), and Quentin Tarantino is an adamant supporter of traditional 35mm.

The issue has been explored recently in Keanu Reeves's  2012 documentary Side by Side, which brought together modern cinematic giants such as Lynch, David Fincher, and Martin Scorsese to discuss their personal sentiments towards both film and digital (watch the trailer below).

The Atlantic, The New York Times, and Roger Ebert have all recently wrote on the subject, as well:

With 35mm Dead, Will Classic Movies Ever Look the Same Again? (The Atlantic)
How Digital is Changing the Nature of Movies (The New York Times)
The Sudden Death of Film (Roger Ebert's journal in Chicago-Sun Times)

The digital issue is one that will only become more and more relevant as technology develops at a progressively faster rate. Thus, we must be sure to take the pains to preserve the films that we have. The loss of those movies made with 35mm would be the loss of a significant part of both cinematic and cultural history.

It's Been Done Before!

As human beings, it seems that we can never truly be happy with what we have. The American culture is a particular culprit of this constant dissatisfaction. It is woven into our social fabric: there is always something better, something higher to reach for; a greater risk to take and a greater reward to earn. It is fundamental to the American mentality, dating back to the rugged individualism of our ancestors who were in constant pursuit of the American dream.

This consistent unhappiness with the status quo is evident even in our criticism of film, especially regarding those directors considered to be auteurs. The refrain among critics regarding these filmmakers is the same: we've seen it before. It's not new, therefore it's not interesting. It's been done.

This criticism is consistently directed at the filmography of Wes Anderson, director of such indie favorites as Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums. Every movie seems to have the same stylistic touch, the same stilted dialogue, the same whimsical humor, the same Bill Murray appearance, the same visual linearity, the same slow motion shot. 

The same goes for Quentin Tarantino (as is evidenced by this indieWIRE article). He has the same central themes, the same stylized violence, the same heightened revenge story, the same exuberant pop culture references. Style and subject matter are fundamentally so similar as to become repetitive, and this boring. At least, this is what some critics express.

According to this reasoning, there is nothing innately wrong with what Anderson, Tarantino, and others like them are producing. The steadiness of their output and the similar threads running through all of their work seem to point to a stubbornness, resistance to change, and a lamentable lack of radical artistic innovation (at least according to critics). 

Clearly, though, it is our expectations which are at fault, not the directors themselves.

A director's style should develop and mature, certainly. But directors like Anderson and Tarantino seem to have found, and settled, their particular brand of filmmaking. It is unfortunate that this results in accusations of 'stagnancy' and 'monotony,' because in reality this is an incredible artistic achievement. These auteurs appear to have settled in and become so comfortable with both their aesthetic and artistic process that radical change simply isn't necessary.  

These directors are the confident adults of the film world. They have no need to travel through the tumultuous process of finding their identity, instead inhabiting a world of artistic maturity. Auteurs like Tarantino have settled into themselves, and have no need for creative experimentation because they know exactly how to express their artistic selfhood. This is clear when one considers that every aspect of both Anderson and Tarantino's films seem to demonstrate that director's influence. This alone is a monumental accomplishment, considering that the overwhelmingly collaborative nature of filmmaking in the first place.

This deserves appreciation and encouragement, not denunciation. But film critics are paid to criticize, and nothing inspires more controversy and rage than calling Tarantino boring. 

Film and TV Characters We Love to Hate

Director extraordinaire Paul Thomas Anderson seems to have a recent obsession with creating narratives featuring unsympathetic, unlikable characters. His latest films, The Master (2012) and There Will Be Blood (2008), both showcase protagonists that lack what the audience might consider to be redeeming qualities... things like a moral compass or a soul.

Structuring a cinematographic narrative around a vile, repulsive and selfish character like There Will Be Blood's token capitalist pig Daniel Plainview may seem counter intuitive. In fact, in theory, what kind of person would want to sit through 158 minutes of Plainview mercilessly manipulating his way into an oil baron's fortune and the vast amount of power that comes with it?

Apparently the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, because Anderson's film was nominated for eight Academy Awards, including Best Picture.

The only possible conclusion to make is this: movie audiences love to hate. In honor of this, below is a compilation of the best of the worst characters in cinematic history. Whether they be serial killers, thieves, or just good old-fashioned villains, nothing is more entertaining than these bad to the bone characters.

1. Hannibal Lecter (The Silence of the Lambs (1991); Anthony Hopkins)

The most quotable serial killer in the history of cinema, the cannibal doctor is undoubtedly the most interesting character that appears in Silence of the Lambs (sorry, Starling). As the unttoppable master of manipulation, he manages to influence plot events... while locked behind bars. This man is so good at playing mind games, he is able talk someone into committing suicide. Even more chilling, he has no apparent motivation for being a cannibalistic psychopath. Evil for evil's sake? Sounds like the best kind of villain.

2. Walter White (Breaking Bad; Bryan Cranston)

What makes the audience pay attention to Walter White, centerpiece of the AMC television series Breaking Bad, is his epic metamorphosis. Throughout the series, he changes from innocuous cancer victim looking to pay for medical treatment to relentless drug-dealer, murderer, and sociopath.  There is nothing more entrancing than watching a person transform from mild-mannered chemistry teacher to gun-wielding, meth-cooking badass.

3. Anton Chigur (No Country For Old Men (2007); Javier Bardem)

You would never say no to a bowl cut, a quarter, and a modified cattle stun gun, right? Right. Chigur is an intimidating, vicious gun-for-hire who uses his twisted morality to murder anyone who stands in his way. A flip of the coin determines if his victim lives or dies. According to Chigur, it's all in the hands of fate.

4. Nurse Ratched (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975); Louise Fletcher)

Nurse Ratched knows how to silence an entire room of men with a look. A single glance. Granted, these men inhabit a psych ward, but that's just semantics. Ratched has perfected the cold, condescending cruelty of a woman who 'knows what's best.' Her clashes with the liberated R.P. McMurphy are film legend. She may look like your middle school English teacher, but never has a woman managed to be so sweetly terrifying.

5. The Joker (The Dark Knight (2008); Heath Ledger)

Ledger's Joker is the most terrifying comic book villain to come to life onscreen. He has become pop culture legend, despite being a thief, murderer, and confirmed sadist. Onscreen, Ledger was fascinating to watch, and performance gave the world a visual explanation for why clowns are so incredibly terrifying.

6. Hans Landa (Inglorious Basterds (2009); Christoph Waltz)

 

Manipulative? Self-serving? Ambitious? Hilarious? Check, check, check, check. Never has a Nazi been so lovably evil as Colonel Hans Landa, the Jew Hunter. Thanks in part to Quentin Tarantino's clever dialogue and unique pop-culture focused sensibility, this performance earned Waltz an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor and Best Leading Actor at Cannes.

7. Scar (The Lion King (1994); Jeremy Irons)

Other Disney villains of the nineties pale in comparison to the sheer vileness of Scar. As an egotistical, power-hungry maniac, he murders his own brother to gain the throne. And he doesn't stop at fratricide.    His bad lion puns in "Be Prepared" are practically murder. We're almost sad to see him eaten by hyenas. Almost.

8. Joffrey (Game of Thrones; Jack Gleeson)

Joffrey is a sadistic little bastard, and is solely responsible for one of the most upsetting plot events in modern television. He is universally despised, by everyone but his mother. It's not surprising that he turns out the way he does, as the circumstances of his birth are fairly morally reprehensible. Despite all of this, we are still delighted when his character appears onscreen.

9. Mark Zuckerberg (The Social Network (2010); Jesse Eisenberg)

Aaron Sorkin's version of Mark Zuckerberg is condescending, acerbic, and egotistical. Regardless of what Zuckerberg is like in real life, in the atmosphere of The Social Network, he is ruthless. There is nothing more fascinating than watching the confrontation between Eduardo Saverin and Zuckerberg; it is simultaneously heart-wrenching and impressive to watch Zuckerberg destroy the only true friendship that he has left. Zuckerberg may display some unethical business practices and a raging case of egomania, but he is entrancing to watch.

10. Frank Costello (The Departed (2006); Jack Nicholson)

Frank Costello's sense of morality is more twisted than the plot of Inception. But there's no denying that he is the most effortless badass in all of Scorsese's filmography. Costello is clever, manipulative, self-serving, and most of all, charming. At least in a sociopathic, violent sort of way.

Rian Johnson Closes the Loop

CAUTION: Contains spoilers

Looper has been hailed by critics and as one of the best science-fiction films in recent memory, being placed alongside such hallowed modern classics as The Matrix trilogy and Inception. What differentiates it, and ultimately makes it revolutionary, is its ability to intertwine science-fiction elements, most notably time travel, with the deeply moving moral dilemmas of its characters.

Looper begins in 2044, in a society not very different from our own. Time travel has not been invented... yet. Thirty years in the future, it does exist, and is being utilized by crime syndicates to eliminate their adversaries. Victims are sent thirty years back in time and executed by assassins known as 'loopers.' This then becomes 'the perfect crime:' no body, no murder.

There is one catch, however. The hitmen known as loopers must perform an action that is referred to as 'closing the loop.' To close the loop, one essentially commits suicide. The looper's future self is sent back in time with a bag over his head, and the looper, completely unaware, shoots and kills him. This is part of the deal: a looper limits his own life span in return for monetary compensation and a life of relative luxury that he might be unable to achieve otherwise.

Young Joe, remarkably well-acted by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, is one such looper. Standing in a Kansas cornfield, he is prepared to complete another routine murder, until the victim unexpectedly arrives without a bag over his head. Young Joe stares into the eyes of his intended victim and realizes that it his older self. Surprised, Young Joe remains momentarily frozen, and Old Joe (Bruce Willis) takes advantage of this opportunity to knock out Young Joe and escape. Young Joe pursues him, knowing that if he does not close his loop, the consequences will be most certainly mean his own death.

As the film progresses, we see the introduction of many more complex motivations. Old Joe is revealed to be working to avenge the murder of his wife by the malevolent crime boss referred to in 2074 as The Rainmaker. Old Joe discovers three children living in 2044, one of which has to be the Rainmaker, and begins a relentless mission to kill all three. The erasure of the child will, he assumes, bring back his wife. If the Rainmaker never existed, his wife would have never been murdered, and thus, Old Joe assumes, will be alive and well in 2074. Meanwhile, Young Joe pursues Old Joe, still looking to close the loop and save himself.

This results in a beautifully constructed confrontation scene, perhaps the most engaging moment in the film. Both actors are able to perfectly convey, and even revel in, the strangeness of the situation of facing yourself across a diner booth. However, Johnson avoids delving too deeply into the existential implications of the situation. This was one of the more disappointing points of Looper for me, from a personal perspective. I craved some kind of more complicated philosophical discussion. If given the opportunity to have steak and eggs with myself thirty years from now, I don't think that I would bother with logistics. But I am not Young Joe, and at this point in the film, he is still on a single-minded mission to close his loop.

This single mindedness begins to shift with the introduction of Sara (Emily Blunt), and her young son, Cid, who is revealed to be one of Old Joe's three targets. Young Joe is confronted on all sides by self-sacrifice. Sara would do anything necessary in order to protect Cid. Old Joe is willing to kill innocents in order to bring back his wife. Young Joe's realization causes the most beautiful revelation in the film. Young Joe suddenly understands that the violence and destruction that the Rainmaker causes in 2074 is a circular device, and it results directly from the violence and destruction that is occurring now, in 2044. So Young Joe selflessly closes his own loop.

Unlike Christopher Nolan's Inception, Looper does no get caught up in explaining its own plot. Johnson uses voice-over remarkably well to explain various plot details, allowing the audience to focus on the emotional impact of the film, rather than distracting us with abstractions. In fact, one of the most admirable features of Looper is that is refrains from attempting a scientific explanation of how time travel works. We are told that it exists, and that it works, and we accept it. Again, this allows us to focus on the movie itself, rather than spending two hours twisting our minds around practicalities.

Looper is also incredibly adept at displaying the complex, interwoven morality that exist in the real world. All characters are independently motivated. None of their motivations are inherently good or evil; they simply conflict with each other. Each character displays an almost equal measure of selfishness and selflessness. This is how Looper avoids descending into stale stereotypes of black and white morality, instead inhabiting a world of emotional and ethical grayness.

The film also features incredible special effects and makeup, and a fascinating soundtrack composed largely of "found sounds" (see this video for further explanation).

Looper undeniably lives up to its reputation as one of the greatest science-fiction movies to be released in the past few decades. Its clever screenplay, admirable acting, exploration of morality, and enthralling action sequences are almost universally appealing. And, important for those fans of Rian Johnson's other work, most notably Brick (2005), it manages to maintain stylistic touches (such as elements of noir) that make his filmography unique. It succeeds on multiple levels, and for those who haven't seen it, deserves a theater viewing as soon as possible. 

October, in All of its Gory Glory: Halloween Movies to Watch and Enjoy

It's October. And as all cinephiles know, this month is one of the most anticipated times of the year, for just one simple reason: horror movies. We finally have an excuse to watch hour after hour of frightening footage, all in the name of celebrating a fantastically terrifying holiday. Film nerds, rejoice.

In honor of this month and all of its gory glory, here are a few horror essentials to make October infinitely more chilling. 

The Exorcist (1973)

This film features a scene that is forever etched into the memory of all who have viewed it: Linda Blair, possessed by a demon, vomiting pea soup into the face of Father Damien Karras. Not to mention countless other terrifying scenes featuring Blair's character, including one in which she masturbates with a crucifix. The fact that this film still manages to resonate with audiences almost forty years later is as impressive as the movie is petrifying.

The Blair Witch Project (1999)

The grandfather of found footage films, The Blair Witch Project is terrifying because of its incomparable realism. Directors Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sanchez actually tormented their actors, stalking them and throwing rocks to frighten them, which accurately explains why their distress is so affecting. The movie's dialogue was also largely improvised, adding even further to its authenticity. Far superior to found footage franchises like Paranormal Activity, The Blair Witch Project makes certain that any one who sees it will never want to go near the woods again.

Alien (1979)

Ridley Scott's Alien presents the perfect mix of horror and science fiction, and with the release of its prequel Prometheus this summer, it is especially relevant this Halloween. Featuring a notable performance by Sigourney Weaver and an adorable orange tabby cat, this movie has remarkably timeless effects and set design. The Alien itself is simply horrific, and stands the test of the time as one of the most interesting and frightening extraterrestrials to be featured in cinema.

The Shining (1980)

The Shining claims the well-deserved status of a horror movie which is able to transcend the confines of its genre and hold its own as a truly great film. This is due in part to Stephen King's excellent brand of psychological horror, but largely we can attribute The Shining's terror to an incredibly psychotic performance from Jack Nicholson and the impeccability of Stanley Kubrick's directing. The tracking shot following Danny riding his tricycle through the Overlook is ominously terrifying and absolutely brilliant. Kubrick's decisions, and Nicholson's acting, manage to pull the audience into a downward spiral of psychological terror along with Jack Torrance.

For additional knowledge, view the 'Making of' documentary filmed by Kubrick's daughter, Vivian (http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xkq12a_the-making-of-the-shining_shortfilms). Also, it may be worthwhile to watch Room 237, the recently released documentary which speculates about the multiple   hidden meanings of The Shining.

Let the Right One In (2008)

Not only does this movie contain enough blood and violence to satisfy even the most discriminating horror fan, it also manages to feature one of the most beautiful and touching stories of young love in recent memory. It calls to mind the star-crossed lovers featured in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, except that Oskar and Eli aren't simply a Montague and a Capulet; they are human and vampire. Extremely touching and overwhelmingly terrifying, this film deserves to be viewed.

Note: Make sure to watch the Swedish film. The American remake, re-titled Let Me In, is a poor imitation of the original, with wholly inferior acting and cinematography.

Persona (1966)

Swedish director Ingmar Bergman's film currently ranks at number 17 in the British Film Institute's Top 50 Greatest Films of All Time, and for good reason. This is a cinematic masterpiece, with incredibly beautiful cinematography and richly developed, character-driven drama. Persona belongs firmly in the category of psychological horror; it does not have the qualities of a traditional horror film. Rather, it creates a subversively disturbing tale of confusion of identity and existential torment. Pay special attention to the interaction between the two female lead characters, Alma and Elisabet; this relationship inspired David Lynch's Mulholland Drive.

Antichrist (2009)

Antichrist, like Persona, is a firmly psychological horror movie. There is, however, plenty of gore and graphic violence to accompany the cerebral terror in Lars Von Trier's most well-known film. Some of the most frightening include genital mutilation, torture, and a talking dead fox. Yes, a dead fox. That speaks. Antichrist focuses on the decaying relationship between a couple after the tragic death of their son, especially the wife's psychosis (stunningly portrayed by Charlotte Gainsbourg). This film is both darkly terrifying and visually stunning; the acting is marvelous and Von Trier's vision manifests itself perfectly on screen.

Hostel (2005)

Hostel is by no means an accomplishment of modern cinema. There is little character development, the dialogue is severely lacking, and the film mostly does not concern itself with a wider theme. Fortunately, what this movie lacks in substance, it makes up for in pure violence, gore, and bloodshed. It recounts the story of three young men backpacking across Europe, who find themselves kidnapped, bound to be victims for an international business in which rich men pay for the ability to torture and kill. Hostel has been criticized for functioning as "torture porn," and in a way, it is decidedly that. In the name of Halloween, though, a viewing is justifiable.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)

This classic slasher movie, directed by Tobe Hooper, is one of the cornerstones of American horror cinema. It details the fate of five friends who, while searching for an old house, are terrorized by a family of cannibals which includes the notorious Leatherface. As hilariously campy as the first few minutes of the film are, what follows is terrifying. The cannibal family is devious, maniacal, and overwhelmingly disturbing.

Note: Avoid the remake at all costs. Nothing compares to the original.
 

Psycho (1960)

Alfred Hitchcock's brilliant interpretation of the horror genre. If you haven't seen this classic by now, shame on you. Anthony Perkins's portrayal of Norman Bates is the standard against which modern horror fans judge all other onscreen psychopaths.

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)

The most well-known stop-motion brainchild of Tim Burton, The Nightmare Before Christmas is a sweetly imaginative tale of a skeleton lost in existential crisis. The brilliance of this film is its ability to bring together the creepiness of Halloween, the unbridled joy of Christmas, and the darkly quirky world of Tim Burton. Everything about Nightmare is childishly exuberant and beautifully crafted, and is an excellent way to lighten the cinematic mood after viewing something as terrifying as Antichrist or The Blair Witch Project.

Martin McDonagh and the Creative Process

Martin McDonagh is the Irish playwright, writer/director, and all around bad ass responsible for the oft-quoted cult favorite In Bruges (2008). His most recent endeavor, released 12 October 2012, is entitled Seven Psychopaths. It focuses on the attempted authorship of a screenplay, to be called Seven Psychopaths. The catch: the screenwriter, Marty, only has one psychopath to write about. He needs to find six more. And find them he does, as the darkly hilarious and highly entertaining film details.

New York University was privileged enough to welcome McDonagh to a Q&A session following an early screening of Seven Psychopaths. Both the film itself and the interview with McDonagh gave some fascinating insight into the processes and problems associated with the act of writing.

McDonagh, unlike Seven Psychopaths' protagonist with which he shares a first name, denied having run-ins with the monster known as 'writer's block.' He said he oftentimes works quickly and efficiently, explaining that he wrote the initial draft of the Seven Psychopaths script in five weeks. McDonagh also explained that the version that appears on the screen and the prototype, which he wrote shortly after the release of In Bruges, are almost identical. 

McDonagh readily admitted that writing quality material did not always come so easily, however.  He revealed that he didn't begin to produce work that he considered to be "decent" until he was twenty-three or twenty-four, only a few years before he was awarded The Critics' Circle for Theatre Award for Most Promising Playwright (1996).

He advised other aspiring writers in the Cantor Center's auditorium to develop their craft by writing constantly, and recommended that, in order to objectively judge the quality of their work, they compare it to movies and plays that they admire. 

Martin McDonagh (right) speaks about Seven Psychopaths at NYU's Cantor Film Center on 11 October 2012

When we strip away the fast-paced, darkly funny dialogue, the stylized violence, and the intimidating insanity of the plot, we find a movie that concerns itself at some level with the frustration that is inseparable with the attempt to fully realize an artistic idea. In the world that McDonagh creates, writing a script becomes much more than just a process. It becomes dangerous. Very dangerous. The featured psychopaths, initially existing solely in Marty's fictionalized world, manifest themselves as physical presences. They are real psychopaths. With real guns. Marty's creative process suddenly spirals out of control and a terrifying reality suddenly invades the fantasy world of his script. The frustration that inevitably walks hand-in-hand with writer's block becomes destructive.

This says something notable about the spontaneous, dangerous, and erratic nature of creativity. Indeed, one might, in fact, describe the creative process as inherently psychopathic.

Ultimately, though, something good does come out of all of the bloodshed and torment (besides a copious amount of black humor). Marty writes his script, distilling artistic inspiration from the chaos that exploded around him. Essentially, Seven Pyschopaths seems to be saying that although the creative process is violent and unstable, it is necessary to suffer in order to create meaningful work.

It is then very plausible to suggest that Seven Psychopaths exists on some level as Martin McDonagh's speculation about what might happen if he himself were to suddenly suffer from writer's block. He has managed to avoid it thus far; hopefully, this trend will continue far into the future.

Intellectual Cinema: An Introduction

I absolutely love movies. I love watching them; I love talking about them; I love thinking about them; I love writing about them. From repeated viewings of The Fox and the Hound on the couch with my father at the tender age of three to two a.m. screenings of Antichrist on my laptop in my 10th Street dorm room, I have always harbored a not-so-secret obsession with the medium of film.
However, as a history major at NYU, my opportunities to express my cinematic passion have thus far been limited to the occasional nerdy conversation about neorealism with Tisch film students.

To combat this chronic suppression of my inner cinephile, I am creating this blog to share my thoughts on film. Hopefully, this will serve not only as a public outlet for a discussion and dialogue related to film, but also as a means of expanding perspectives and allowing others to experience movies as I do.