Duality in Do the Right Thing

The title of Do the Right Thing (1989) commands whomever reads it to be ethical. But, of course, how do you know what's ethical? Do the Right Thing doesn't seek to answer that question, but instead propose that it cannot be answered.

The film closes with a picture of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X together. They were the two most prominent leaders of the civil rights movement in their time, and yet they had conflicting ideas about how to achieve equality. The quotes at the end of the film present their ideas, MLK saying violence is never the answer and Malcolm X saying violence in self-defense is intelligence.

These two ideas are presented in another portion of the film, on the fists of Radio Raheem. The approaches of MLK and X are turned to 11 and presented as Love and Hate. Of course, this simplifies the paradigms of two men to one word labels, but it only serves to further the parallel within the film. Love and Hate, two hands of the same man, the same desire to fight the power, are presented in a wonderful monologue by Radio Raheen, through the metaphor of boxing. These two forces battle within every person. But what is right? Again, we are left without an answer, only to continue our lives, using Love when it's appropriate and Hate when it's appropriate.

Just as every person must decide when to Love or when to Hate--or when to be peaceful or when to be violent--the civil rights movement as a whole also had to struggle with the frustrations that come with the difficulty or progress. Those frustrations, at times, would incite either Love or Hate. Do the Right Thing tackles the difficulty of a movement lead by two opposing concepts and the way that certain situations precipitate certain reactions. Sometimes you try to boycott a pizza parlor that won't cater to it's customers, and sometimes you throw a trash can through the window. You do what you gotta do.

Immersive Horror in Rear Window

Rear Window builds on using Jeff as a stand-in for the moviegoer until the climax, where the villain directly attacks the audience.

Throughout Rear Window, Jeff watches his neighbors, and is shown reacting to them, much like the audience of a movie. The windows of his apartment frame the action just like the frame of a movie screen. Jeff and his friends look on from their impenetrable fortress, separate from most of the action. Most of the time, the vignettes they observe are not worth meddling with, so their disconnect from that world is not a problem. Except for the suspected murder by Mr. Thorwald of Mrs. Thorwald.

As the tension builds in the story across the courtyard, Jeff and his girlfriend advance their own story as well. Lisa and Jeff share their first scene before the murder and by the end of it they're about to break up. The strained relationship between them continues to become even more strained until, in a creepy twist, they begin to fall back in love over their common interest in the murder. It's easy for them to become interested when it feels so distant.

They feel safe in the apartment, particularly Jeff, who hasn't physically exited his apartment in six weeks. The courtyard separating him and his neighbors is a moat. He feels free to try and meddle in Thorwald's affairs without consequence, as long as he stays in his castle. However, we see the horror on Jeff's face when Lisa crosses over. This far into the movie, we have become familiar with Jeff as our proxy. We take cues from him on how to react. If we never saw Jeff's reactions to Lisa in Thorwald's apartment, we would be at somewhat of a loss and the scene would be less tense--he coerces us into fear.

The scariest moment of Rear Window is when Thorwald crosses the moat and enters Jeff's world. Jeff denies that it's even possible until the moment Thorwald comes lumbering in. It's incredibly unsettling to feel as if the monster is there with us in the room. Thorwald attacks not only Jeff but he attacks the audience. There's the sense in the movie that our only entry point to this story--Jeff--could be killed. It's an unprecedented horror that Hitchcock constructs. And it's way better than 3D.

Putting the Puzzle Together in Citizen Kane

Thompson searches for the meaning of a word--rosebud--in Citizen Kane. He does not find the meaning by the end of the film, but he does find everything else around it. Had Thompson gone to one of the storerooms of Xanadu and found the sled, it wouldn't make much sense to him, or the audience. But Thompson did find the context for "rosebud." Yes, the word rosebud might refer to Kane's sled, which may indicate a yearning for his childhood; or it might refer to a woman--or a part of a woman, as some rumors suggest--but those conclusions could never be made without the knowledge held only by those closest to him.

The people in Kane's life reconstruct the man like newspapers never could. Kane, as a public figure, could only be analyzed by his actions in the public eye. The newsreel reveals those actions--the newspapers, the marriages, etc. But that's only the Kane that Kane wanted to be--the persona that was as manipulated as the sensationalist news printed by his newspaper. Thompson, tasked with finding the man beneath this image, turned to the people that made up his personal relationship. He found the real Kane, the Kane that exists in the minds of people, the man behind the hype.

Orson Welles is known for his dramatic entrances, most notably in The Third Man, and Kane is no different. We first see the young-adult Kane as Thatcher lowers his newspaper to see Kane sitting at his desk in the newsroom, sipping coffee. Thatcher's personal account of the adult Kane begins when we see the man behind the paper--a visual metaphor. We are literally peeking into the personal life of Kane, the one that lies beyond the media. This scene is matched to a later scene when Kane relinquishes his empire, but instead of a newspaper he is behind a contract.

So once we get the context to put Rosebud in, how do we know where this particular puzzle piece goes? Is the puzzle even complete at this point? Of course it's not. We've never ventured deep enough into Kane's mind and Thompson never speaks to Kane directly. This puzzle is still missing enough pieces to not really know where "rosebud" fits. We can make guesses--the sled, his childhood, a certain woman's intimate body parts--but we'll never really know without all the pieces of the puzzle.

Kane has its own consciousness, as if it were self-aware. The content of the movie--like the puzzle--mirrors the structure of the movie. Like Susan, we're trying to put together the puzzle of Kane's life. By the end of the movie, so is Kane. The shot of many Kanes in two mirrors haunts both Kane and the audience, and it also says something about Kane's sense of self. Who is the real Kane--the one we see in the papers or the one that only his companions see? What does it mean to be Kane, or for that matter, what does it mean to be anyone?

This mirror shot reflects both the cinematography and the form of Kane. The uniqueness of the film's deep-focus allows us to see farther than before in film. Two mirrors facing each other reflect into eternity, making an infinitely long shot. Deep focus strives to create visuals like this, seeing into eternity, and seeing in a way the human eye can't. The two mirrors also suggest circularity, which we see in the plot of Kane.

Putting the puzzle together is something we actively take part in as moviegoers. Citizen Kane was groundbreaking in its structure and we can see its influences in everything that came after it: Memento, most Tarentino films, Sunset Boulevard, The Machinist, Lolita, most noirs from classics like The Chase to moderns like Brick, and countless others. Putting the story together keeps the audience engaged and the entire character of Thompson only exists to supply that. We can take part in Citizen Kane through Thompson, like he's a personification of human curiosity. But at the end of Kane the "No Trespassing" sign reminds us that no matter how engaged or curious we might be, we're still always going to be missing some pieces of that puzzle.

Feeling Trapped in M

Watching M, directed by Fritz Lang, is like being pulled in every direction while also being crushed at the same time. It's a confusing feeling, much like the film.  It challenges expectations and goes headlong into a morally grey area.

We are shown many shots that show the murderer, Hans Beckert, being trapped by other shapes on the screen. Beckert's trail is finally picked up about halfway through the film while a policeman is searching his apartment. Immediately after that scene we are shown Beckert's face for the first time. This is a challenging development because the audience is prone to assume this is a mystery and it probably wouldn't be solved until the end of the film. However, we see Beckert halfway through, and the film becomes something else entirely. The first time we are shown Beckert his face is framed in the reflection of a mirror in a shop window--foreshadowing his inevitable capture and as a metaphor for the new evidence found by the police that are leading them closer to him.

On the other side of the law we see the criminal underworld, who have already been compared very closely to the police force earlier by Lang's crosscutting of the two groups' meetings on how to capture the murderer. While they are not on the trail of Beckert as early as the police, they are the group that captures him. They are only able to capture him by luck when the blind balloon salesman hears him whistling a familiar tune.

This is Lang's first film to use sound and his various experiments with sound as an artistic element of cinema are evident. Sound is used as a plot device by leading to the capture of the murderer. The absence of sound is used to indicate the absence of children. Silence is also used to heighten the tension in many scenes. What might Lang be trying to say about this semi-new technology? Is it a force of good? Is it evil? How should it be used in film? I think those questions could be answered yes, also yes, and however you need to, respectively. Lang is using sound just like any filmmaker would use visuals: in any way that was necessary to best convey the story.

As the story progresses we are continuously trying to find who to relate to, and as the tension builds and builds, we're not sure why. When they are searching for Beckert in the attic, what should our expectation be and why are we scared it won't happen? Are we afraid of Beckert being found because we should see him as our main character, our tragic hero? Or are we afraid he'll get away with it all? Either way, no matter who you might be rooting for, we feel our expectations being challenged constantly. You can be on whichever side you want in the film, but it seems like every side is equally depraved. The police are dirty and unfair in the bar, but want to stop the murders because that is their duty; the criminals are violent and want to murder the murderer,  but only because they want to continue their regular debauchery; and Beckert is a child raping murderer, but he can't stop himself. Every force in the movie has certain motivations, but it's up to the audience to decide which force we might want to side with, if any.

The character of Beckert himself is very interesting. He represents some of the worst evil in the world, and yet he's a chubby man with a baby face. The scenes showing the empty, silent building after Beckert's capture echo the earlier scenes showing the empty, silent city streets when Beckert captures Elsie. This comparison might be suggesting that Beckert himself is very childlike. He is driven only by the maniacal force inside him, that manifests itself as an audible whistling. The same whistling that will ultimately be his downfall. Perhaps that same inner force wanted him to be captured. Beckert is doomed, which becomes more and more obvious as the film progresses. But his capture is not really what makes the film so challenging. It's what happens to Beckert after that raises many questions about morality, who really is a force of good in our society, how can working class parents protect their children, should we punish those who seem so compulsive in their sins that they cannot be stopped, etc.

It's amazing that such an original film could be created so early in the history of the art form. It transcends genres and even common conceptions of morality. The movie creates tension out of unclear motivations. It brings us in expecting a particular kind of movie, shatters that expectation and the next one we create, and it keeps challenging what we expect, and what we want, and in the end we feel trapped, like Beckert, or the police, or the criminals, or even the parents, in what we expect, and what we end up with.

Framing a Story and Its Effect on Perspective

In both The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Man with the Movie Camera, the narratives exist as the perception of a character in the story, framed by a larger story. These framing stories contextualize the central narratives, giving stylistic choices more artistic connections to the story.

In The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, we see the first ever twist ending in film and, Shymalans aside, a twist usually serves a purpose. For the most part, a twist ending puts everything that came before it in a new frame. The opening of Caligari seems nonsensical, on its first viewing. As the movie starts, we stumble into a conversation between two men in a decrepit garden. One of them says, "there are spirits--- everywhere. they are all around us. they have driven me From Hearth and Home- From Wife and child." The other man replies, "That is my fiance," referring to a woman walking by much like a ghost herself. "What she and I have experienced is even stranger than what you have lived through." The man, Francis--our hero--then begins to narrate his story. But what happened to the other man's story about spirits? When I first saw it, I wondered if maybe ghosts were popular subjects for movies at the time and this was a comment on their prevalence--a bait-and-switch for an audience used to ghosts. After Francis's true nature is revealed at the end of the movie, however, the opening scene becomes coherent. Once you know that they are two insane men conversing, a non-sequitur coming from the man sitting with Franics becomes passable as insanity coming from an insane man.

The revelation at the end of the movie, when combined with its framing counterpart at the beginning, gives the stylistic choices in the middle of the film all new meaning. Repeat viewings of the movie, like any with a twist ending, becomes like the I Spy series of books, but instead of looking for "a lion, a spring, an oar/A lobster claw, and dinosaur," you're finding colorized filters, expressionist set design, and altered representations of space. Every new element that supports the idea that this story is taking place in Francis's head is a little "a-ha" moment.

A nighttime scene, shown through a filter.

All of those artistic choices serve the purpose of placing us in the mind of the unsettled Francis. The color filters, while also serving the purpose of showing us night-time scenes under a cool blue, show the subjective view in which he perceives the real world. The set design also bring us into the mind of Francis, with its expressionist architecture and warped perspective created by painted shadows. The set's mostly sharp corners and flat backdrops create a surreal atmosphere--particularly in the festival. The festival contrasts with the asylum as a place where emotions can run wild. Painted shadows create interesting representations of space, making the whole story seem to take place in a physically small area, which in reality it is: Francis's brain.

One scene in particular combines both the filter and set design, where Jane, Francis's love interest, worries about her father (shown right). We see her through a rose filter--much like Francis sees her real-world counterpart--in front of smooth, curving crescendos painted in the background, some of the only curved set-pieces we see in the film. These elements, when combined with the framing narrative, put us in the perspective of a madman.



Man with the Movie Camera also has a framed narrative that challenges our perceptions. The movie is mainly composed of experimental shots strung together with no stronger of a plot than the ingredients list on a cereal box. As the movie opens we purvey a movie theater eager to be filled with an audience eager to watch a film, which is also the same film we're watching. The film we're watching is also a film about the making of the film we're watching. Somewhere in this mess our perspective is lost, but that's okay, because the fast pace of the movie holds our attention longer than we have to think about it. The beginning of the film within the film starts with scenes of an empty city, preparing for the day, echoing the empty theater preparing for the audience. The similarities between these scenes evokes Shakespeare's As You Like It, suggesting that maybe "all the world's a stage," but not quite as dramatically as the melancholy Jaques.

Man with the Movie Camera is filled with images of eyes, from the people in posters watching the sleeping woman in the beginning, to the eyeball that is superimposed over the lens of the camera at the end (right). This motif raises questions about an audience's relation to what they are seeing, as does film itself. The director Dziga Vertov writes in his manifesto at the beginning that he wants to portray film as a completely separate form of communication in Man with a Movie Camera. He wants to show that a movie camera can really immerse audiences more than any other form of art, and take them to new places visually. There is a visual allusion to the Lumiére Brothers's L'Arrivee d'un train en gare de La Ciotat--and other early films--featuring a train coming right at the audience, which had allegedly scared early movie-goers into ducking in their seats to avoid being run over. Now, however, the audience only reacts with acceptance, as film has become common enough for people to know better--which is one of a goals of the movie.

Is there a character in the movie, if at all? You could say the cameraman is the closest thing we get to a character, in the main story. Of course, since we see through both the camera he's using and another camera filming him, it's hard to know who's point of view we're seeing this through. That's where the framing device in Man with the Movie Camera comes in: the audience watching the film is our real perspective. There is already a very strong connection created by the movie as they are scenes of the common man, but that connection is furthered as we are seeing these scenes through the eyes of an audience. We, as a people, are both the subject and the perspective! It's a movie for the people and by the people. Take the title of the film: Man with a Movie Camera. It's not The Man or A Man, it is Man, as a collective, pushing the boundaries of this new, totally immersive art form, together. This theme of unity is not too far from the communist ideas brewing in Russia at the time, either.

Both The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Man with a Movie Camera transform when placed in their framed narratives. In Caligari, our perspective moves to an abstract realm in the surreality of a crazed man's mind. In Man with a Movie Camera our perspective is hyper-real, viewed through several layers of our own reality. In a way, everyone views reality through different frames: our senses are the only connection we have to the world around us, and then we are also framed by our culture, education, class--anything that effects how we view the world. Film, even in its infancy, is the chance to shed our own frames and see through a new lens.