Tuesday, December 11, 2012


Cast: Daniel Craig, Dame Judi Dench, Ralph Fiennes, Javier Bardem, Naomie Harris, Bérénice Lim Marlohe, Ben Winshaw
Director: Sam Mendes
Runtime: 140 min.
Verdict: Utterly reactionary. Completely dilutes all of its attempts at some sort of relevance by paying tributes to itself. And yeah, static and inert.
Genre: Action, Thriller

                Consider, dear reader, the fictional universe of Superman/ Clark Kent, the flag-bearer of American exceptionalism. Imagine a tale where Daily Planet is under attack, where Perry White is another of Superman’s “father figures”, where a former disgruntled journalist is exacting a calculated revenge by knocking off one journalist at a time his main aim being the destruction of White. The other journalists are mere bait, and what he wants is White and White alone. Superman has got to stop it. To raise the stakes, let us have the disgruntled journalist a man with superpowers after having been bitten by a spider. And to spice up matters, let us make Superman physically unfit complete with high blood sugar levels and a failed kidney. Maybe even a groin injury. And a pulled hamstring. It doesn’t make much sense, I admit, but considering the production house’s insistence, it is still a Superman picture. To make an independent low-key low-stakes Superman picture is not merely an oxymoron, it is plain ridiculous. Why should an archetype of a nation with such great power be reduced to a silly street-side quarrel? And if that is indeed the case, why, in the lord’s name, should we be the bystanders to such an utterly uninteresting non-event?
Dear reader, do not mind that the above concoction is something of a rhetorical question, and I would rather you focus on the fact that I direct this question towards you when we consider this latest James Bond picture from Mr. Sam Mendes. I repeat, it is a James Bond picture. An espionage film. An espionage film that isn’t Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, and there’s no way a commercial entity like a Bond picture would have the courage and integrity to go the way of Mr. Alfredson’s masterpiece. It can only pretend, before function-less hot women and action sequences and silly one-liners knock on the door demanding their presence. In an uneasy mixture as this, if the stakes are as high as M’s life, when there’s the whole of the world begging to be included in the picture, including those dozens of MI6 agents, I’m not sure how such a narrative could end up being anything but dramatically inert. There’re several elements, like Silva’s (Mr. Bardem) island for instance, that could still acquire a personality of its own and lend some of that to the narrative, but Mr. Mendes generally limits them to ornate appearances. I am assuming several of you have already watched the film, and I ask you to imagine a less complicated and hence less ludicrous Silva master-plan, where he simply blackmails the stakeholders that he would keep revealing the details of MI6 agents each day James Bond doesn’t personally deliver M to him, the flash-drive being the bargaining chip against any military intervention. It simply doesn’t shrink the narrative further, it makes it leaner and poetic. It brings a dimension of ethical uncertainty to the proceedings, a la Christopher Nolan picture, where James Bond carries M on a boat through the heart of darkness, and crucially, it gives us the opportunity to ask such self-congratulatory (yet I believe involving) questions as – (a) Did Bond secretly want to get rid of M, for the sake of the countless agents, and for himself, and (b) Why doesn’t M give herself up, and save the lives of all her agents? Then, there is the island, the island of disillusionment, this island unhinged from the world, and maybe, just maybe, Silva could’ve constructed it in a manner so as to remind Bond of his past. A journey for all, you know. I might sound boastful here, but this picture in my head is getting increasingly awesome. Something like a super riff on From Russia with Love, and almost certainly a game-changer. But then, never mind.
What I intend to highlight is Skyfall’s failure at a very basic, action-picture genre-stakes narrative level. The crucial factor for any Hollywood actioner is the helpless collateral, like in Premium Rush, where the money belonging to a mostly innocent Asian woman is at stake. Or The Dark Knight Rises, where the lives of Gotham’s 1% and 99% are at stake. Or Taken 2 where it’s the wife. And so on and so forth. Skyfall does have two of them – a woman by the name of Sévérine (Ms. Marlohe), and well, the identity of several MI6 agents. Mr. Mendes squanders both of them, Sévérine by wasting her in a rare confusing shot (I realized she was dead only after she didn’t make an appearance for a good fifteen minutes), and the agents who’re (a) faceless and, (b) are anyway exposed 5 a week so as to become a minor stakes in the middle of the film until M takes over those duties. And I’m finding it incredibly tough to buy M as collateral to base the entire narrative upon. A film as Rambo III does have the Colonel hostage but there’re several Afghans at stake too. I mean, it is like having a Nolan Batman picture with the mayor kidnapped, or coming back to my ridiculous scenario from above, where Perry White is the hostage. I mean, why the hell would I need Bond for that? Why is M so damn important?
And answer to which might be, to pull back James Bond from all the campy world-saving escapism into a real psychoanalytical self-conscious world. The dramatic and serious James Bond. To what end, one might wonder? While Goldeneye described, in a supreme moment of wit and economy, the archetype as a sexist misogynist dinosaur, Skyfall does take the pain of going all psychoanalytic on our posterior, complete with mommy issues, not merely to address and deconstruct the archetype, but milk the iconic symbol of British exceptionalism that James Bond has been for the past so many decades. Him being weak, him finding it tough to get to six pull-ups (I do sets of 7 daily) ought to be read as a failure at a national level. James Bond would have been a knight a few hundred years ago, or at least a noble, but here, running around on the roads, as Mr. Mendes intercuts him against Silva’s men dressed as cops, as M (Ms. Dench) recites the lines from Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses, he resembles not the bureaucracy but the working class. It is real tough to reconcile with this idea, but Skyfall, which seems to be as paranoid about its relevance as a franchise, as it is of its eponymous figure, so much so that it fantasizes a world almost a hundred years into the past. There’s Shanghai, featuring yet again this year (after Looper) as a dazzling futuristic world, almost cementing itself as the capital of the new world as far as Hollywood is concerned. And coming in a James Bond picture, where Tomorrow Never Dies had a bike action sequence set amongst the slummy face of China, and Die Another Day, where the East (Korea) was a war-ravaged area of megalomaniacs, it might be something of an acknowledgment of the order of things.   
More importantly it wonders about the significance of spies. Robert Baer, in that wonderful book of his, See no Evil, mentions how the CIA did not have one decent field officer or linguist in the Middle East during the early nineties. That very good old-fashioned intelligence on the ground is what Skyfall is trying to preserve, and it feels, for better or worse, out of place in a franchise that actually helped rewrite and romanticize, with futuristic gadgetry and technological prowess. When Q, in a rather pathetic self-referential comment, disses all of that history as some joke (which it is), romantic or whatever, and intends to rewrite it tethered to a real nuts-and-bolts world. I’m all for such corrections, but there is a certain self-congratulatory tone to Q and the film, where the deconstruction is not means but an end. More importantly, the details of the deconstruction all come in broad strokes, with Bond finding it tough to get to six pull-ups, and declared mentally and physically unfit. And yet he gets an opportunity to provide us with his customary introduction to a woman in a casino, which happens to create something of an ungainly combination. Something like those super-tight trousers that Bond seems to wear and is rarely elegant or comfortable in. I bet a hundred bucks if we freeze frame that moment where M announces him his results and he stands up and leaves, we would get a fine shot of his trousers and the underpants stuck up his crack, which, in a rather fine way, becomes symptomatic of this entire exercise. I mean, Bond sure seems to be in pain while hanging by an elevator cabin, but then he isn’t particularly troubled in the field. Throw in those komodo dragons to bring back ugly memories of those crocodiles in Live and Let Die, and I wasn’t sure about the tone anymore. 
What’s troubling is the inherently reactionary view of things, of Aston Martins and British Bulldogs, of the majesty of the Westminster skyline (should that be interpreted as: The east can be all light and show but nothing trumps this view), of the Scottish moors. Mr. Deakins’ shot of Skyfall, up from a hill, closely resembling a John Ford shot, is so evocative here one might almost instinctively utter “throwback”. The new world order, the working class, the nature of intelligence and all such questions posed by the narrative are evaded by the film’s desire to run back to the past, in a land devoid of all the diplomacy and secrecy and technology. It is an uncomplicated land, ethically and strategically, a land that alludes to a great past (which I assume to be imperialism), a land which almost desires hand-to-hand us-versus-them combat, like the wars of the early years of the last century, and one feels Skyfall intends to have that land as some kind of base upon which to write a new history and a new world order. There’re films out there that might be wrongly labeled as reactionary when they merely want to present a world with beliefs, and a narrative filled with conviction. Mr. Mendes’ Skyfall isn’t one of those. Its half-baked questions are lost amongst the celebration of British icons. And then I think of those komodo, and I am filled with a sense of disgust that all of this might be only to serve as a Launchpad for a new franchise. Probably drenched in Scottish whiskey and narcissism I suppose.

Note 1: Here’s a psychoanalytic reading of the film that might be a worthwhile read –

Note 2: Here’s Jim Emerson considering the film’s staging, and despite Mr. Deakins’ work, some of the set-ups, like in the water tunnels, a clear reference to The Third Man, are dull and uninspired.

Tuesday, December 04, 2012


Cast: Aamir Khan, Rani Mukerji, Kareena Kapoor, Nawazuddin Siddiqui
Director: Reema Kagti
Runtime: 139 min.
Verdict: Mostly workmanlike as an exercise in narration, but its interests lie elsewhere – in wanting to raise a few tired conventions to their thematic extremes.
Genre: Thriller, Drama
                Notwithstanding Mr. Khan’s penchant for expressing his art via the layout of his facial hair, that thick moustache, proudly walking all the way up to the chin, is probably the most defiant symbol of patriarchal control in this world here. Control that the “alpha” male, or otherwise, needs almost more than anything else, and the breakdown of which leads to very bad case of overcompensation via Man’s Guilt. It is considerably easier to feel guilt than to feel helpless, i.e. impotent, and as gently as Ms. Kidman breaks the nature of that illusion to Mr. Cruise’s egomaniacal masculinity in Days of Thunder, Ms. Kagti here causes something of a therapy session masquerading as diegesis, which in turn, it could be said, is masquerading as redemption. I mean, the opportunity to salvage someone’s life. As you would be aware, dear reader, that I’m not a big fan of sentimentalizing a city and all that fluff, and Talaash here seems to present Mumbai as some sort of illusionary shit-hole, a microcosm of urban life (eye roll, obviously), that people need to be saved from. It makes people selfish, do “bad” things, and it tries to offer these battered and bruised souls a chance to redeem themselves before they meet their maker. Moments of grace, if you might want to call it that.
                Now, Ms. Kagti is no great storyteller nor is she an especially ingenious one, but what she does here in Talaash is to use a set of fairly tired conventions to cause some sort of gender statement. Some comparisons ought to be had with Dhobi Ghat here, and Talaash, one could claim, is essentially a hyperlink film masquerading as a single character’s journey. The initial set-up and the coda might even fool one into assuming that this is the good old-fashioned star-celebrating (an individual over a whole group, Dabangg, Rowdy Rathore and every film that celebrates a hero) tale of a cop who has lost his son and is investigating a homicide. Truth be told, I prefer the way the film is, trying to be a hyperlink individualistic piece within the confines of a hero-piece, and the sophomoric literary dexterity with which Ms. Kagti tries to mix and almost dissolves (chuckle) two mostly archetypal tragedies – one the loss of a son and two the accident of an actor – is sort of cute. I mean, water everywhere, and tears begging to come out but being prevented by the patriarch’s sense of guilt over what he feels is a momentary lapse in control, and then finding himself utterly helpless at the very bottom of the sea only to bring him to admit that being responsible and being guilty might not be the same thing after all.  
                In many ways, it is like the exact antithesis of a Raj Khosla film, of schemers undone by lost souls, of not one but a tale of many living in their little cocoons running behind illusions trying to control their little worlds, and when Mr. Siddiqui (Timur) limps and jumps and escapes for the second time this year carrying a blue bag, momentarily making us doubt his intentions (film noir), Talaash sort of leaps genres and becomes some sort of tragedy. We meet Timur for the first time when he knocks on his mentor’s home, and as the door opens, there’s a woman who wakes up on the bed in the corner. There’s something about her casual demeanor that inspires the kind of emotions in a lonely man which might have led Kevin Spacey’s Joe in Se7en to desire a wife. He limps around in the film with that desire to call some woman his own, and in Talaash, where the notion of a helpless feminine in this land of male-desire-driven rules is systematically revealed to be merely an illusion, where the illusions themselves are essentially feminine in their nature, he becomes as much of a helpless man lost in the middle of nowhere as the protagonist, Srujan (Mr. Khan). They got to be some sort of brothers, one overtly masculine, one a crippled weakling, and yet weakened by their desire to be the male-in-control in the eyes of their women. One running away from it, and one running towards it. The limp desires to be a hero of some sort, and the other cannot reconcile with the fact that his heroism has been rendered near impotent in the eyes of his wife. Not that this is what the wife believes, but we’re looking at the male perspective here, and Srujan needs to conquer some territory and establish an area of control. I’m reminded of Scottie, again a detective, and the desire to control an illusion. Which here happens to be a hooker by the name of Rosie (Ms. Kapoor, horribly dressed and quite garishly colored). Not the film is anywhere near acceptable on the skill level as far as creating an image of desire, but Ms. Kagti’s point does get conveyed across. Apart from a couple of deftly handled conversations, Ms. Kagti’s film is essentially workmanlike, and most times it works more on a sub-textual level than the textual level.
But where it did win me over was the manner in which it mirrors the desire to control an illusion with the classic narrative trope of the awesome detective. A seemingly unsolvable case is what is presented, not with a great deal of finesse I might add, almost hammering the point home, and a cop/detective much in the vein of a Sherlock Holmes, who would amaze us all with his sense of reason and observation, and hence provide a sense of control over the seemingly uncontrollable and hence inexplicable. Talaash is not interested in using its narrative twists as some sort of trump card, and as someone who is fairly proud of his ability to observe conversations, I was under the impression it gave its game (intentionally or unintentionally is debatable) fairly early, or at least definitely towards the halfway mark. What it is more interested is in upsetting that traditional patriarchal order of things, of a man, of a detective, of a world that is feminine and does accept its lack of control, and although I respect the manner in which the film goes about its objective, my version of achieving might have involved something more along the lines of a Zodiac.
                So yeah, even though I believe someone like Mr. Randeep Hooda would’ve knocked the Inspector’s overtly masculine behavior out of the park, I do abide by this iteration of Mr. Khan’s facial hair. Alright, consider that moustache a deconstruction of the ones in Dabangg and Rowdy Rathore. And I absolutely abide by what the film considers it final image, of the patriarch sitting in front of a river and submitting himself into the arms of his wife. It is a tough thing, to perform like a man all the time, and sometimes it is absolutely fine to be a kid all over again, desiring the motherly embrace. It is a plea for help, an admission of one’s weakness, and I believe it is the film’s own way of not merely bringing the various elements of its narrative full circle, but providing some sort of therapy. There is some grace there if you ask me.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


Cast: Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Bruce Willis, Emily Blunt, Pierce Gagnon, Jeff Daniels, Noah Segan
Director: Rian Johnson
Runtime: 118 min.
Verdict: While I appreciate Mr. Johnson using concepts and conventions merely as a ruse to construct moral “dilemmas”, I’m not sure of the underlying ethics.
Genre: Thriller, Sci-fi, Drama

                The present is 2044, Kansas. The future, only barely shown, is 2074, Shanghai. The present is a depraved land of contradictions, a Blade Runner living right alongside Days of Heaven. It doesn’t seem to add-up, the macro and the micro, the view from far and the view from within. It is all light and poverty, invisible keyboard and a good-old fashioned axe, high-rises and dilapidated structures, and while a man simply shoots a vagrant trying to steal something of his truck, Joe (Mr. Gordon-Levitt), a hired gun, takes the pain of laying down tarpaulin to avoid the mess before disposing the dead body into an incinerator. When the city is all filth and drug, I wonder, why take the pains to leave the farms neat and dry. Maybe it makes sense to keep the workplace clean. And there is his watch. And his worn-out book. And a blunt gun that might as well be the first gun ever invented. And his digitally operated underground cellar-cum-vault where he stores his silver bars. One might suppose Looper considers the total decay of western civilization as we know it, right down to the death of its currency. As in, the rise of Zed (which obviously has Zedong’s face). Or maybe, as we come to meet more of its characters, none of whom seem to be Asian in origin save one crucial woman, I wonder if it is simply a case of the dislocation of the “western” civilization. Recently, we had a little vacation in Kuala Lumpur, and although my opinion here ought to be thoroughly scrutinized, what one feels in the big urban centers of our continent is a distinct lack of personality. We’ve the same model, and Hong Kong could easily double up for Beijing. It is simply vertical growth and urbanization without a sense of history. I watch a Johnnie To production, Motorway, and I realize yet again how adept some of those movies have become in resembling Hollywood productions. Does Hong Kong offer anything other than empty roads for glossy cars to chase through them? In Looper, henchmen wear black overcoats and hats, and for some odd reason the news ticker chooses to show “The Rainmaker” in English, leaving the rest of it in Mandarin. So, is East the new West, populated by the same people? I tend to find that a little hard to digest in a globalized world. Not a deal-breaker though.       
                What bothers me here is the value of the film’s final act of sacrifice and how it fits into the overall dynamic of the film, and I suppose here is where I ought to WARN YOU ABOUT SPOILERS. I better warn you about sophomoric jabs at Freudian mumbo-jumbo too, and here is where Abe (Mr. Daniels) and Sara (Ms. Blunt) come to the party. There is the big city, a lawless amoral land, ruled by Abe, who is some kind of a patriarchal figure. The city has no principles, no good or no bad, just decay and drugs and sex and technology and money. And there’s the farmland, an anachronism so complete with an axe-wielding woodcutter it almost seems willfully built like the haven in The Village, and it is Sara’s. The mother’s. Probably the only mother in the entire picture. A mother with a gun guarding her innocent child. Or, the innocence of a child. Or, the innocence of childhood. I know you get the picture. There’s Kid Blue (Mr. Segan), a crazy Gat-man (Abe’s henchmen) whose only desire is to find Abe’s validation, which contrasts starkly to Sara’s world, who’s desperately trying to win back her son. Everybody in 2044 Kansas seems to be an orphan, and there seems to be desperate dearth of old people. Save Abe. A kid is almost run over by Joe’s car and we wait for a screaming parent who never appears. Just the abandoned kid in the middle of the road, who seems to be something of a metaphor for the hapless unhinged state of the present. A state, which going by the evidence here, could be explained by the absence of a maternal figure. Or the presence of a paternal figure. Vice-versa for the contrasting farmland, I suppose. I wonder if it is safe to assume Mr. Johnson is in favor of a land without loopers and The Rainmaker and Bruce Willis clones and Bruce Willis shooting down the bad guys. Maybe even Batman and Alfred. You know, the whole orphans and father figure deal. It is a noble thought if you ask me, a land of cultured and domesticated men not seeking replacement for their mothers, standing strongly against the folks from a lot of our movies these days. Renouncing macho bravado and violence, although it gets contradicted a little by the Bruce Willis style shoot-em-all coolness of the final shootout at Abe’s den. Let us overlook that factor though, because Looper is only halfway towards a class of movies I have now come to classify as “The Incredible Hulk” movies, where the darkness of the protagonist’s past kind of unfolds to display his awesomeness, and what is at stake is his overall domestic life. The Taken movies, for example. These movies are inherently patriarchal, seeking validity and at times authority. There’s a righteousness within them that doesn’t bond with me too well, and here in Looper, while Mr. Willis Old Joe, who is the template (considering which actor is imitating whom), takes down scores of Gat-men all over the picture, the young Joe is considerably more uncool. As in, they do not operate as Blondie and William Munny, and Old Joe is given possession of that righteousness, which the film is planning to subvert all along. As in, another paternal figure bites the dust.
I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea why Mr. Johnson is so devoutly against the very idea of patriarchy. He provides me with no evidence, no real emotions, but merely conceptual ones. Looper’s essential dynamics is constructed around archetypical stakes with vague descriptions, otherwise known as clichés, and it is tough to imagine why a good father wouldn’t be borne out of this mess. Is Young Joe, like T-101, so inherently corrupted that there is no way out for a better society than his suicide? Which is what bothers me. The film’s moral dilemma – if you knew who the man who took your wife was and it was you because of which he became the killer, what would you do – is so cut-and-dried it hardly merits any discussion. Especially if the would-be-killer is a little kid. Mr. Johnson’s layout towards the end, especially without a close-up of the Gat-gun until it appears in Old Joe’s hands, and the presence of a blunderbuss, and cornfields, and the principal characters, serves more as a rendition of the concept than as a dramatic situation. Any logical question, like why wouldn’t Sara follow her kid into the cornfields, doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. Which I can live with. And by my estimate of the narrative it doesn’t matter if Cid eventually becomes the Rainmaker or not, Young Joe’s actions are more out of hope masquerading as a belief in humanity, specifically the maternal aspect of it, than anything else. I mean, it is just about as much of a coin toss as it was when Patrick Kenzie decides what’s good for young Amanda in Gone Baby, Gone. Young Joe’s choice, although an act of sacrifice, is in no way a guarantee of Cid’s future and is more in line with Travis Bickle’s need to be a hero than Patrick’s courageous assumption of responsibility. I mean, does Young Joe’s suicide in anyway have a bearing on the mother’s and the child’s safety? What if the next one in the middle of the night is not a hobo? What happens to Cid’s TK abilities, which if we’re not mistaken, are playing into Magneto’s arguments when we automatically assume them in a negative light? Is it a fear of both evolution and technology? Young Joe’s action doesn’t provide an answer to any of these questions, other than to tell us that it was an act of sacrifice. Which doesn’t exactly convince me. Is it helplessness masquerading as sacrifice, and I wonder what stopped Mr. Johnson from having Young Joe ram Kid Blue’s scooter into Old Joe. I mean, since it is a constructed dynamic, why not have the loop closed and let the boy have a father. If the future could be changed and is a set of infinite possibilities, why not take the responsibility of trying to seek the best one. Why not make the present better? You see, Patrick Kenzie never flinched, stuck to what he believed in, lost everything, and still had the humanity to sit beside little Amanda. That is humanity for me, a supreme act of courage. What Young Joe has done simply absolve himself of any possible culpability.

Saturday, October 06, 2012

The Real RocknRolla

Curtains. Television screens. Windshields. Venetian blinds. A train bursting through the bubble of middle-class calm. A young man’s dead body. A gun barrel. A brick wall. The Mexican boundary. A dead woman’s hands. Number 11 jersey. A baseball cap. The reflection off the glass top of a table. A disc. Orange Boy. Orange girl. The wrinkled skin of an old woman. A match swipe. The cigarette held between the fingers and against the lips. No eyes there mind you. No windows into the soul. Just the skin lit green. Just the fingers with blood stains. And the lips, with blood on them. And the cigarette. This might not be, strictly speaking, a demonstration of Bazin’s notion of depth and realism. Which happened to be the case with a lot of movies that were being made around the Eighties in Hollywood, and a movement, intentional or not, well and truly consolidated into the Nineties. A decade where I suppose the dispositif of narrative cinema changed quite radically and, which in many ways, embraced and propagated the post-ideological fascination with what I often refer to as the cinema of itself. Or to offer a more scientific nomenclature, it could be labeled the cinema of surfaces. The origin was of course in the Fifties and the Sixties, in films such as Vertigo and Point Blank, in the films of Nicolas Roeg, and the band of Eighties were not anything if not cinephiles themselves, seduced by the appearances and the accompanying illusion. The real action was in the text, and it’s only fair Steven Soderbergh sort of summarized it with Sex, Lies and Videotape. Where the narrative architecture of the cinema of the Fifties and the Sixties was preoccupied with the presence of a gun and the accompanying political implications, the Eighties and the Nineties often found themselves enchanted by the sheen of the metal. The form of the gun, or the sound of a gunshot, and the ensuing reverberations were of equal if not more interest than an underlying theme. This was to be the decade (along with television) that probably inspired the Nineties to be the agent that transformed the close-up from an event to the default currency, and in a movie like the Speed where almost all of the conversations even amongst the bit players are via close-ups, one gets the notion of the growing individualization that was to be one of the standard features of a lot of media in the ensuing years.
There was Ridley Scott whose Blade Runner assumed, in many ways, the status of a flag-bearer for the post-modern loss of identity. Yet, the manner in which the overarching tone of the diegesis informed his style, Scott betrayed the essentially modernist approach of form-function-union to filmmaking. One might even make a similar claim for Adrian Lyne, whose little cutaways have a reflexive relation with the narrative. There was David Lynch, and for someone having a background in painting he displayed a remarkable suspicion for surfaces. There was Michael Mann and Tim Burton, expressionists, one sensual and the other a little hardcore, and yet all of these filmmakers carved an essentially static moment. Mann would have mirrors and television screens and windows reflect their view back at William Petersen, and through his languid aesthetic he essentially created landscapes that didn’t feel time-bound. Their cameras still didn’t prefer to deal in close-ups, and chances were any given frame would present itself to be our desktop wallpapers. 
Nosferatu falls?
 Tony Scott was probably the one mainstream filmmaker during this time who combined the one-two punch of close-ups and a dynamic approach to his compositions. What Jim Emerson often refers to as one-thing-at-a-time filmmaking, Scott was interested in the rhythms that held two accompanying shots. He favored motion in his frame at the expense of any great detail, dealing in match-cuts and juggling between frames through something close to synchronization of motion. Maya Deren’s A study in Choreography for the Camera could be a frame of reference here. What Ignatiy Vishnevetsky in his essay describes as metaphysical romance, where characters in his later movies, especially guys, seem to “bond” with each other overcoming the spatial gap of different images, is nothing but the harmony Scott seems to discover in these bodies in motion. Yet, none of these films seem to attain the pure sensuality, sensuality that is not limited to a body or a couple of bodies within a frame, than the opening of his first commercial feature, The Hunger. Sunglasses and leather wear and brightly lit skin and lips and iron-meshes collide into each, providing for a glorious hodge-podge of association. Figures sway against the smoky shallow background, each completing the other’s motion across spaces not yet mapped (there’s a crazy monkey thrown into the mix), and genders and equations and identities are written and rewritten. It is a play of surfaces and actions, signs if you might call it, referring to nothing overarching but merely seeking unison in the moment. Every edit is what makes for the preternatural. That is until the narrative kicks in, which happens to be the case with most of his later films, and yet everything The Hunger is about is already established within those initial few gestures. Man of Fire is the oddity here, which happens to introduce its protagonist through a similar phenomenological abstraction. All the horrors of everything the Clint Eastwood characters have ever done might have been covered up by those layers of wrinkles, but it is not merely montage (in this case, a volcanic mountain) that Tony Scott invokes to suggest Denzel’s Washington’s tortured soul. He literally burns him on the film, exposing every pore on his skin that is ready to perspire in that heat, and the multiple exposures create something close to an epileptic seizure. Here, one might argue that I’m suggesting something that David Bordwell is dismissing here, when he claims –            

On the same grounds, every awkwardly-edited film could be said to be expressing dramatic tensions within or among the characters.”
            Valid it is, to catch the B.S., but Scott, in his more inspired moments, created phenomenological experiences on film, i.e. experiences that could only be created and felt on film (don’t know if digital can mimic double exposure and flicker to its visceral extreme), and experiences that, like the very best of montage, were intersubjective. And much of it had to do with the way he shot and juxtaposed and contrasted skin tones and textures. The silken Madeline Stowe in a world of sun-burnt sweaty mostly ragged surfaces (Revenge). Kiera Knightley in a room full of huge shirtless Latin Americans gangsters (Domino), and it is amusing how Scott uses his love for surfaces to address his content, in this case Domino providing the head gangster a nice little lap dance for some information. Or to take that theme to its poetic extreme, Catherine Deneuve in a room full of her old lovers (The Hunger), where identity is nothing but a disguise and the self is both defined and limited by the immortality of the skin.
It is this surface, this demarcation between the interior and the exterior, where the secrets are hidden and identities forged. There is in his films a prevalence of cavernous spaces and thin membranes keeping the outside world at bay. Curtains and venetian blinds. There is nowhere Tom Cruise’s character or we would call his home than the race car. And I wonder about the old woman and her cave (Loving Memories), and how much more personal and hence sinister it turns out be than the caves her brother explodes. All the walls with all those pictures of the young Gil Renard, the Little League Star that explain The Fan. What’s more, the only witnesses to the queen vampire’s entire history, from her days of blood sucking as a Pharaoh to a modern seductress, are those white curtains. And while we’re speaking of histories, I suppose there is Youtube space for a montage charting Tony Scott films, from Loving Memories (a dead body) to The Hunger (the body of a phallic woman) to The Last Boy Scout (television) to The Fan (pop culture) to Enemy of the State (surveillance) to Domino (reality television) to Déjà vu (time), and how these elements so melodramatically invade the fragile private spaces. Or, even within The Taking of Pelham 123 I suppose one could examine all the membranes – between the hostages and Ryder on the train, between Garber and his bosses, between the working class and the Mayor’s merry men – without fearing an inconsequential exercise. 
It is the struggle within these areas – the spaces, the family, the society, the traditions, the country – the great genre filmmakers of the past – would make their most definitive (subversive and deeply personal) statements. Winchester’73 is about a lot of things, but that final frame, with the girl in the arm and the buddy in sights speaks more about the love-hate nature of domesticity than any film I’ve ever seen. While someone like Anthony Mann’s men yearned for domesticity, Tony Scott, much in conformity with the nature of popular cinema since the Eighties, wanted his completely domesticated men to feel the need to be heroes again, and preferably in the eyes of their women. This probably is his version of the “American dream”, where a patriarch doesn’t simply rule the territory but earns the respect to rule it. While Top Gun and Days of Thunder are about boys being absolutely terrific at being boys, with grown mature no-bullshit women learning to respect their boyhood, The Last Boy Scout offers an even more concrete version of the dream complete with an image. The film’s is something of a Chinatown, and the dream being chased is not an elusive woman, but the woman within the home. When the film is done, Bruce Willis, who has defeated the baddies and kicked the mayor’s would-be-assassin off the flood-light, dances against a stream of blue and red while everyone applauses. His daughter respects him, his wife loves him. The fantasy is complete.

The American Superhero
The Fan is almost a “revision” of The Last Boy Scout, and Robert De Niro’s Gil Renard is something of a defeated version of Willis’ Joe Hallenbeck. Enemy of the State, while completely ambivalent as far as any concrete statement on surveillance is concerned, does provide its smug lawyer the opportunity to get back his marriage and also preserve the sanctity of the “American way”. And by the time Tony Scott incorporated the same personal/popular stakes for Chris Pine’s character in Unstoppable, this fantasy had long become one of the most tiring aw-shucks-not-again clichés in the Hollywood machinery. Two films stand apart starkly in Scott’s filmography in this regard – The Taking of Pelham 123 and Revenge – and they seem to be oddly placed for an auteur (what Quentin Tarantino calls a Unique Voice). Not that I’m a big fan of straight-jacketing an oeuvre into one specific statement, but Pelham especially for the fact that it comes just an year before Unstoppable, and that both films deal with working class trying to fight their way through two of the major catastrophes the country has had to face this decade, it’s interesting to read the friction between the writer (Brian Helgeland, a “Unique Voice” considerably darker, pessimistic and dare I say cynical) and Scott, who seems to be falling head-over-heels in declaring Walter Garber another great working class superhero. Pelham is so self-aware at so many levels it is practically its own shrink and its own critic. While Scott is bathing in Garber’s newly-found glory and respect, who’s carrying a gallon of milk as his wife has demanded of him, after just having shot a man a few hours ago, Helgeland’s script makes us quite uncomfortable, something we do not feel in many Scott films. Enemy of the State is supposed to be a cautionary/horror tale against the evils of surveillance, but when the film, in another of those cases of adolescent one-upmanship, turns the tables and starts bugging the houses of the men in power, it just completely misses the bus of what it was about.

This is the ambivalence that a lot of action blockbusters during the Eighties and the Nineties seemed to suffer from, and even in Scott’s black-and-white us-versus-them oeuvre Revenge presents the most fascinating oddity. That is until Scott himself butchered it into conformity with his director’s cut and avenged the wrong that was meted out to The Hunger (the ending doesn’t make a lick of sense). While smug American cowboy displays his coolness by freely wandering into the Mexican territory in the film’s opening moments, which might remind one of Top Gun, Revenge, based on Jim Harrison’s work, is quick to bring to mind Vietnam and cause us to believe this little tale is something of a parable. Anthony Quinn plays that tired cliché of an old gangster having a trophy wife, a wife who wants to be a mother but he wouldn’t let her ruin her precious body, a curvaceous body the American cowboy falls in love with, and yet the film, in its theatrical version, cut by the late Ray Stark, was a dirty messy film that didn’t provide for easy answers and didn’t yield to easy allegories. Quinn’s gangster does treat his wife with a great degree of warmth (as a scene by the pool suggests that is edited out in the director’s cut), and the runaway affair between the woman and the American is something of a heartfelt romance that finds its note with the death. One can imagine where Costner’s directorial debut Dances with Wolves (at one point Revenge was to be the one) found its tone and pacing, and through the languid pacing each of the supporting players get some sort of individuality and respect. The director’s cut chops everyone out making us wonder why would someone so selflessly serve the American, and although it removes every bit of warmth from the marriage providing for a degree of entitlement, the essential question at the heart of the tale – autonomy versus righteous justice – still bleeds. But one thing remains though – the Director’s Cut, with its woman nothing but a sexy body that causes the dispute, with its good-guys versus the bad-guys dynamic, with the juxtaposition of the wounded body of the American crawling on the sand as his smug self flies above (the Scott of the Aughties would’ve obviously shot it differently, as you would so easily imagine), is undoubtedly the Tony Scott film of the two versions.
Which is a funny thing, this business of being a “Tony Scott film”, and what does it stand for. The careers of Michael Bay and John Moore are practically built around that identity, that aesthetic and its inherent adolescence. And of course the ambivalence. It was filmmaking through crescendos, a fetish for our working-class national heroes. Behind Enemy Lines, with its love for kinetics, with its us-versus-them, with its hatred for bureaucracy and ridiculous politics, with its self-righteous excursions into non-American territory, with its father figure rescuing a bright pupil, with its every moment an excuse to have an helicopter shot, is practically the same movie as the Tony Scott film that was released on the same week of November 2001 – Spy Game. A case of promoting American exceptionalism, if you might want to label it as such. What’s Domino but an early uncritical version of 127 Hours style performance of a performance, a film that might as well have been titled Being Domino Harvey.  
Or, could we just look at the Tony Scott oeuvre as the cinema of wish-fulfillment. Of the simplistic fantasy of righting a wrong. A desire for seeking an alternate reality. Not that it takes us anywhere, or ought to be glorified, and even though in cases like Revenge it might rub the wrong way I guess there’s space for the Scott brand of escapism. This concession sure does ruin a lot of the action picture. But then he will always be the guy, despite the sloppy tension-diffusing filmmaking, despite Motor city Detroit offering nothing by way personality so much so that it might as well have been Los Angeles, who wanted Clarence and Alabama to live. From One of the Missing to Loving Memories to The Hunger to Top Gun to Revenge to Days of Thunder to Crimson Tide to Déjà vu Tony Scott, like any person who ever breathed fresh air, dealt with death and fantasized of overcoming it. That little convent is where Miryea Mendez dies, and Scott is gracious enough to provide for a hill overlooking it. Cheesy as it may sound for a NASCAR picture, Cole Trickle tackles his own mortality by driving for his friend and saving from a fatal accident. And then, there’s Doug Carlin, chasing not merely mortality but time itself in what might be one of the definitive car chase sequences of all time. It doesn’t matter he leaves a dozen other vehicles on the bridge looking ahead at a long stint at the nearby hospital, or maybe worse, but the single-minded urgency is exhilarating. And poignant, when I’m reminded of that little story of a Southern soldier trapped in rubble all by himself with his own gun pointing at him. I think of him, and I think of the Agent who dies himself and leaves notes all over for an alternate timeline version of him to follow them and save the day. Déjà vu was about Claire Kuchever and her death, was about a dead woman desired by a man, and only someone like Tony Scott could’ve double-reversed it all and made it about the death and rebirth of Doug Carlin, a man needed by the woman. I wouldn’t want to sound too melodramatic, but when I think of the filmmaker on the bridge, a part of me still wants to believe he was looking for something. Or maybe he left something.

Note: For whatever it is worth, amidst the digital versus film debate, Tony Scott, with that single-fluid-shot concept in Déjà vu, might have given us a starting point for what the digital as a medium ought to strive for. Not to mimic film, because the concept of a shot is meaningless here, but to traverse space in a wholly different way.