Object #56 - The Device - Cronos (1993)

Dir. Guillermo del Toro

It took me longer than I'd care to admit before I realized that Cronos is a vampire film. The beauty of the film lies in del Toro's spin on the classic archetypes of vampirism, which are so unique that, at least in my case, the very nature of the film unfolds slowly. By going in a new direction, the old creature is seen in a completely new light. 

I do also have to admit that I did pick up on the vampire theme, albeit subtextually. See, to plug my past work, I've always loved how vampires are inextricably linked with death via coffins, dating back to Nosferatu which I discussed. In Cronos, the coffin plays an important role in a scene mid-way through the film where we see Jesus Gris' (Federico Luppi) rebirth. He is the elderly antiquarian who has become addicted to the painful, blood-draining device which reinvigorates his body - giving him longer life. He is killed earlier in the film accidentally by Angel de la Guardia (Ron Perlman), the son of industrialist Dieter de la Guadria (Claudio Brook), the villain of the film who desires the device to elongate his own half-life. 

The scene has the coroner, Tito (Daniel Gimenez Cacho) go about his task of cremating Gris' body. The machines keep failing, a fact that could be interpreted as an act of god, and so Tito goes to the other room to fix the issue. As he returns, the coffin is open, and Tito absentmindedly shuts it, and sends it on its way into the fire. Angel returns on the orders of his father, posing as a friend of family to double-check that Gris' heart has not been pierced (Seriously, how the hell did I not notice the vampire elements!), otherwise the device's effect on the father will not work. Gris then has come back to life, and indeed the parallel to Jesus Christ is highlighted by Jesus himself as later he laughs at the aptness of his name. It is in this coffin scene that I thought back to Nosferatu and the use of coffins by vampires, and yet I never made the connection! I saw this man, now re-born as a wholly unique creature of del Toro's making, and that is not only a testament to a great story-teller, but also in the ability for me to see vampirism, with old cliches intact, in a wholly new way.

There's a great moment where Gris, in a weakened state, telephones his wife (Margarita Isabel), who believes him dead. He whispers her name, before she hangs up suddenly in fear. I thought that this was a fantastic 'explanation' for the paranormal visits of 'ghosts' in popular myth, sometimes over the phone. Perhaps these visits are people who have used the device, and following death, wish to return to their past loves and past lives, but of course they cannot - as we see later, with Gris' thirst for blood growing stronger. 

The vision del Toro has of vampirism is one of addiction. There's an earlier scene as Gris allows the device to feed off him in a bathroom, where the device, insect-like, digs metal claws into his flesh, with finally a needle extending from the main body of the device, penetrating the chest and feeding the ancient creature inside (which we see surrounded by clockwork, a motif which would return for del Toro in Hellboy II). Mercedes, his wife, and Aurora (Tamara Shanath), his granddaughter knock at the door, asking if he is ok. He mutters that yes, he will be right out. This is imagery that we've seen before with addicts, who hide their drug-taking in secret, weakened by their use of drugs, coupled with pleasure. 

The most famous scene of the film, and rightly so, sees Gris completely overcome by his thirst for blood, as a party-guest's blood (from a nosebleed) draws to him from the nearby bathroom sink. Another guest complains about the mess, and washes it away, much to Gris' pain. However, a small patch of blood lies on the tiled floor, and Gris, completely overcome, bends to the floor and licks the blood  up slowly. 

This a man at the lowest of the low, and we see the cost of his rejuvenation in revolting detail. At the end of the film, there is a fantastic image where Aurora holds her cut hand to her grandfather in offering, and we see the hunger in Jesus as he craves her blood. What I love about the image is that Aurora holds her hand in a V shape, and the blood runs down the gap of her fingers directly down. It seems to be a visualization of a vagina, one whose virginity has been taken and bleeds. What this does then so brilliantly is again tie back to the sexual nature of vampires, which is otherwise completely ignored in the film, beyond Gris' horniness increasing a little after his rejuvenation (but in a natural human way, rather than a vampiric way). It is even more taboo as it is a dearly loved member of his family, and it would be an abuse of power, not only of body to murder and take her young blood. Gris sees this, and of course refuses her offer, destroying the device. 

His body has been transformed by the device, his skin a white, vampiric one under the old flesh of his human body; his soul however remains pure, despite his nature as a kindly old man taking a hammering along the way - with murder (of Angel), licking of the blood from the floor, and the feeding (in a traditional vampiric way, from the neck - this is where it all came home for me thematically) of Dieter. His soul passes the test of family connections, rape (metaphorically), and addiction with the final destruction of this device. He breaks the chain for future sufferers, and denies himself this unnatural longer life as he realises the final cost it would take from him - his future, in the form of Aurora; a theft of her future and his bloodline, recycled into his own body directly via blood. It is the addict choosing cold turkey, and destroying his stash, indeed, destroying the production factory of the stash! 

The device then is pure del Toro - in physical design with clockwork and unnatural creatures dwelling within, and in soul, as we see his vision of the vampire, and the classic movie monster. Shades of Frankenstein echo in Gris and Aurora, hearkening back to del Toro's own childhood viewing of the Universal monster films. This is a great director interpreting and remixing the mythology of monsters off-screen and on, creating something entirely new, but refreshingly classic in nature.   

Object #55 - Red high-heels - Tenebrae (1982)

Dir. Dario Argento

Tenebrae blew me away. This film was my first Argento and I've literally bought nearly every film of his I can get my hands on since watching it. For that reason, if you have any intention this Halloween of seeing a fantastically stylish slasher film with a kickass synth soundtrack (No, not Halloween!), then read on only if you don't mind having the twist of the killer's identity spoiled.

...still here? Ok, here we go. 

Now as you would know from a cursory read of the refreshingly in-depth wikipedia page for this film, Tenebrae is a film all about duality. I nearly chose the typewriters as the objects for this film because the duality theme din't actually hit me until I saw them together. There are two killers in the film, the first, who commits the murders of the first half of the film, is reporter Christiano Berti (John Steiner), who is inspired in his own way by the slasher books of author Peter Neal (Anthony Franciosa). The second murderer, as we discover later in the film, is Neal himself, who becomes unshackled mentally by the murders of Berti. 

Earlier in the film, before we have even met Berti, we see a dream-like sequence where a beautiful woman (Eva Robin) leads men to a beach as she undresses slowly. The men crowd around her, and she goes to her knees, feeling the legs and torso of each of the men - almost trying to touch all of them at the same time. In slow motion, one of the men slaps her hard across the face. Licking her wounds, she only has to look at the men, using her sexual power to make them catch the man, now running away. They hold the man down, and she, who is clad in a simple white dress with bold red high-heeled shoes, kicks him repeatedly. She finishes her assault by forcing the heel down the man's throat, raping him orally. 

Take a breather because this is a highly charged image in its own right, even stronger in the scene as a whole. This woman holds such sway over the men, yet remains an object to be abused physically. Her sexual allure is so strong however that this societal 'weakness' as a woman is turned on its head, and her beauty is enough to turn men her slaves, co-operators in her shaming of the man who took a step too far in the face of her beauty. She uses the brutal sexuality of the man against him, forcing her heel into his mouth, raping him as he would have done to her. There is an undercurrent of homosexuality, as if he's being forced to suck a dick, but this is harsher, as the heel in an inherently feminine object, and so it is doubly humiliating as it is feminization via masculine, somewhat gay imagery. 

As Neal goes on to murder later, we see a second flashback in the first person, where the woman in white is stabbed in, presumably, revenge by the abused man. This flashback takes place during Neal's 'section' of the film, as he goes on his murder spree, and so we are to presume that these flashbacks are his own history - he was the abused man. His murders against women by fictional characters in his novels are, like Berti believes wholeheartedly, subconscious victories against women as a whole, due to the acts of this one woman in the past. So to are his murders now, and indeed this is manifested directly in his gift of red high-heeled shoes to his ex-wife Jane (Dario Nicolodi), who is later murdered by Neal for having an affair with his publicist, Bullmer (John Saxon) - who he has already publicly murdered at this point in the film.

Jane's death is remarkably violent, as Neal bursts through the window with an axe, chopping her hand off as it sprays blood across the wall. She is stabbed in the cheat over and over by Neal off-camera, and it is here we are revealed the identity of the second killer, Neal. Here the flashbacks are 'explained', and the motive of Neal made clear. He directly emulates the death of the woman who abused him, by not only eliminating his cheating ex-wife, but also the abusing woman symbolically, as Jane wears the red heels, and wears a white dress that becomes stained with blood.

It's a truly horrible death, as are most in the film, but this one is remarkably sadistic and brutal, as are all of Neal's murders in comparison with the colder calculation of Berti's. It is because of the awakening of this repressed memory of Neal's that the murders come passionately, and are more primal, using many different objects such as axes, rather than the shaving blade of Berti's. Again, it is through duality and comparison that the brutality of Neal is highlighted. Of note also is that within the second flashback, it isn't clear if the murder of the abusing woman is truth or the revenge-fantasy of the young Neal - a fantasy fulfilled in his novels, and in his murders now.

The film has Argento playfully respond to critics of his early giallo flicks, who stated that he has a problem with women as his films such as Cat O'Nine Tails always had beautiful women killed in gruesome detail. The scene earlier in the film has a critic of Neal directly use this argument in Neal's novels - except here the critics are correct, his novels are subconscious manifestations of his hate towards women. Do I think Argento is 'owning up' to hating women in the film? God no. Argento has no issue with women, but I love the playful meta-nature of the film, as Argento almost vilifies these critics, almost saying that "Yes - you are right. Let me make a film about it." 

P.S I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the musical theme of Tenebrae, performed by Goblin and featured best in the scaling crane-shot of the two lesbians' house early in the film, was sampled (surprisingly directly) in French electro-duo Justice's song Phantom. It's a kickass song and one I've enjoyed a lot before even knowing it was a sample. Put it this way, Justice have great taste in not only film, but film soundtracks.     

   

Object #54 - Mill wheel - White Zombie (1932)

Dir. Victor Halperin

It's impossible to talk about White Zombie without mentioning Romero's Night of the Living Dead (1968). White Zombie is technically the first zombie film - ever. The zombies are referred to by name, are people who have been brought back to life from death, and are mindless. They are best illustrated in an early scene, where the local sugarcane mill is discovered by Charles (Robert Frazer) to be run entirely by the zombie-thralls of Voodoo master Murder Legendre (Bela Lugosi) - yes his first name is actually murder. 

Here, the zombies are not brought back to life from death by radiation (as hypothesized by scientists in Night of the Living Dead), or via a biological virus (a-la most zombie films). In White Zombie they are thralls of a skilled practitioner of voodoo, a mystical belief system that, at least in the film if not in reality, can control the minds of both the living and the dead - being so powerful a will in Murder's case, that the dead themselves are compelled to return to 'life' to obey him. This 'life' is representative of what we know about the classic Night of the Living Dead zombies, at least in part - they have no free will, cannot speak beyond grunts and moans, walk slowly, and can commit murder. 

Differences abound however - they retain abilities from before their death, most notable in Madeline (Madge Bellamy) who can play the piano beautifully as a zombie, but with no passion or spirit, and more widely in the 'workers' of the mill, who carry baskets, and operate machinery such as the mill wheel. More modern zombies have 'evolved' in their own way to reflect this characterization, some even using guns, such as in the Resident Evil franchise (both games and films). My favourite example of this is in the first season of The Walking Dead where one zombie has a 'routine' of returning to its home, and looking through the peep-hole of the door. Here, there are none of the common zombie tropes: no bites turning the living into zombies, no cannibalism, and no brain destruction completely killing the zombie (although this is more a case of lack of opportunity in the plot in White Zombie) - all, incidentally, introduced by Romero, a fact which deserves more credit than is given - it's astonishing how much one man's vision of the living dead continues to this day. 

But White Zombie has power in its own right - best shown here in the mill scene. In their filmic introduction, the zombies - a word completely new here, already predict the behaviours that we find to be 'zombie'-like in our common parlance - that is, mindless and passionless activity. Edgar Wright parodies it in the brilliant opening of Shaun of the Dead (2004) where we see shop-keepers, kids playing with footballs, dancing youths (etc.) perform activity in such a way that it is robotic and completely inhuman.

The zombies of White Zombie provide a warning in their very inception, that horror is being a slave, that horror is performing actions without passion, that horror is murder done on the behalf of others. These are modern horrors - working a robotic (that word again - perhaps the modern version of this zombie archetype?) job in a factory, watching day-time TV vegged out on the sofa, even the gym where exercise is stationary and regimented. Koyaanisqatsi (1982), a film I've covered on the blog in the past, deals with this existential horror - with scenes of factory and supermarket workers performing the same actions over and over and over. 

Zombies would go on to be meaner, and act more as personifications of death itself, a symbol that persists as most prominent to this day, being a prime source for interpretation, best seen in the entire Living Dead franchise. But in White Zombie the mindlessness of the zombie is the largest horror, the worst thing imaginable in the film seems less to be the zombie's ability to kill you, and more the fact that the zombie can play the piano as well as when it was alive - but with no shred of humanity, no soul. Coming back from death is impossible without this core cost of soullessness, and it remains a perversion, a slavery to a voodoo master. In our modern day lives, if we feel zombie-like, then we have to ask - who is our master?

P.S Both White Zombie and Night of the Living Dead are in the public domain and legally free to watch and even sell copies of. I've linked the wikipedia links to the films here which contain the entire films - free to watch. Just in case you're bored this Halloween season! 

P.P.S I realize that last sentence is very teenage-angst, anti-authoritarian bullshit, but does have some truth in it. Although the best rebuttal to that point of view is Bob Dylan's You Gotta Serve Somebody. 

Object #53 - Sheet - The Conjuring (2013)

Dir. James Wan

Nerdwriter has a fantastic video on Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice where he discusses the 'fundamental flaw' of the film, that being, that it's a film full of effective moments, normally shot extremely well, but no effective scenes. His videos are well worth a watch, even if you disagree with some of them, but this one I think he nailed. Moments such as the court-room explosion, a crowd reaching out to Superman like a deity, Batman's reveal where he clings to the roof of a seedy building - all great moments that come to my mind right now, but no scenes that could be described as that scene, crucially, not even the fight between the two heroes. 

The Conjuring has the same flaw, however in no way to the same extent. There are moments you may remember - the floating chair, the matches being lit in the basement, and the sheet silhouetting the malevolent spirit. However, I wouldn't really describe any scene as being a stand-out, mainly, because I feel most of the 'moments' are either cribbed from other horror films directly, or cribbed technically, usually via framing or camera movement. For example, when the mother, Carolyn (Lili Taylor) goes into the basement for the first time after hearing a noise, a red ball springs from the corner and spooks her. Now to me that moment seems to be a direct homage to the famous scene from The Changeling (1980), where the red ball rolls down the stairs of the haunted house of its own will. I trust James Wan to have seen that film (I mean come on, of course he has, surely) and it seems more likely to be a nice little homage, rather than a 'rip-off'.  

The scene from The Changeling

The horror genre tends to be very self-referential in nature, very reactionary to other films and formats of horror, and I'd argue again that the moment towards the end of The Conjuring, where the possessed birds attack the house has a lot of Hitchcock's The Birds (1963) in it's DNA. The found-footage craze, dying out nowaydays(ish), is evident in the use of the first-person viewpoint, as the crew film the visits in the basement. The entire film has little moments and shots that seem to call back to past horror, but the one moment, it's a little too short to call a 'scene', that I think is completely new, and completely effective, is the moment with the sheet, which you can view here. 

Lorraine (Vera Farmiga), one of the paranormal investigators, is hanging up some washing for the family. We've had encounters with the malevolent spirit at this point, and just earlier there's a nice character moment between Lorraine and her husband (Patrick Wilson) where they lament that they don't have a nice house and family like this one. The cloud close in, darkness falls, and the wind picks up. Lorraine reaches for a white sheet, but it flies from the washing line, and very briefly, it is caught on top of a humanoid figure - the spirit, silhouetted. The music spikes, and the form of the spirit is lost, as the sheet blows to the upper window, and then blows away. This brings Lorraine's attention to the figure in the window above, the spirit, possessing the mother. 

It's a very sudden moment, not wholly unexpected due to the change in weather, but nonetheless surprising as it's a very unique shot, one that couldn't have really been done prior to the proliferation of CGI. It's damned scary, and what I love more than anything is how it turns that classic image of ghosts - a floating sheet - into something very scary. We've all done it as kids, thrown a blanket with eye holes over you head, and raised your hands going 'OOOohhh'. We've all seen it in Scooby-Doo! 

From Scooby-Doo

This is the main moment from The Conjuring that I feel stands alone, and will be remembered at that moment from the film. Now, if I think of the great classic horror films, they tend to have a few of these great moments: e.g The Thing (1982) - the defibrillator scene, the blood-testing scene, the dog in the cage; The Exorcist (1973) - the Crucifix masturbation, the head turning 360 degrees, the 'Power of Christ compels you' scene; The Shining (1980) - the twins, the woman in the bath, the hedge maze.; etc. etc. So, I don't know if The Conjuring has enough stand-out moments to make it that memorable over time, and arguably I have to ask - should it? Is the power of a film in moments or in scenes? Does a consistent creepy, scary tone out-weigh a few standout creepy moments?

Time will tell I suppose. From my experience, one moment in a film can usually be enough to earn some life-long fans. Cult films thrive in the horror genre, and even if they don't enter the pantheon of horror as films like The Shining do, they still inspire young filmmakers, are still loved, and of course, still scare the crap out of you! 

Object #52 - Family Table - The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)

Dir. Tobe Hooper

No, I'm not being purposefully contrary and not choosing the chainsaw as the object for this film. ok, maybe I am a little bit. So why the family table and not the chainsaw? Well:

The horror of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is encapsulated to me in two things, two central things, with a hell of a lot of subtext underneath. Those two can be symbolised by the chainsaw, and the family table. Personally, I find the family table to be scarier. 

i) The Chainsaw: Primal, raw energy. Leatherface (Gunnar Hansen), who we see has little more mental development than that of a child, using heavy machinery to chase teenagers through an old house and a field. The horror is of a twisted child, completely let loose with the ability to kill you with a rotating saw of death. This is physical horror, tied to the weapon, and tied to the location - bumfuck nowhere U.S.A, where nobody can here you scream - and oh boy, is there a lot of screaming. 

The second half of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is almost wall-to-wall with sound, mostly the screams of 'final-girl', Sally (Marilyn Burns), the revving of the chainsaw. It's exhausting to watch and listen to; it assaults you, a feeling that the film excels at. The scene that always strikes me as I view the film, is when Sally and the disabled Franklin (Paul A. Partain) are come upon all of a sudden in the treeline surrounding the abandoned house. Leatherface, clad in his iconic butchers apron and skin-mask, slashes his chainsaw into Franklin, who is helpless to escape.

Sally screams, naturally. Now what a lot of people get wrong about the film, is that it's bloody or gory - it isn't. The early kills involve a meat hook and a hammer, yes, but not much blood is shown. Here, despite it actually being plausible, only some blood spatters Leatherface's apron. If that freaks you out, don't worry about it here. 

Sally runs through the tree-line, screaming and bashing away branches, and Leatherface pursues, grunting and slashing his chainsaw clumsily at the branches to clear a path. Sally runs and runs and runs, and all we experience is pursuit. To me, this is fantastic horror, and horror at the most basic level. You went for a trip with your friends, a murdered picks you off one-by-one. You see the last of your friends, the cowardly Franklin, torn apart in front of you by this demented killer, and you are now completely alone, in a field, with this human monster chasing you. This could happen, it's damned unlikely, but your daily life could be visited by a crazed murder. In the final scene of the film this returns as the car/truck drivers see this insanity, and are all of a sudden fighting and fleeing for their lives. That's what I think the chainsaw symbolises - the primal horror that all of a sudden, like most of the animal kingdom, you will have to flee for your life, or die. All that stands between you and death is a maniac with a weapon, in this case, a chainsaw.

ii)  Family Table: I touched on it above actually, because that's my bias. The other horror of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the notion of the twisted family. After the scene above, Sally reaches a gas station, and begs the owner (Jim Siedow) to call the police. Eerie silence sets in, as Leatherface does not burst through the door (brilliantly framed constantly to the right of Sally, making you anticipate the door being burst), but a worse fate comes, as the owner restrains Sally - this bastion of safety has been subverted, and it is revealed that the owner is part of the Leatherface family, being an older brother, alongside the hitch-hiker (Edwin Neal) seen earlier. 

Sally awakes, restrained, at the head of a family table, pictured above is her point of view. At the opposite end is the grandfather (John Dugan) of the family, seen earlier but believed dead, who wares a face-mask, likely made from skin and dyed white. Leatherface has gussied up, with blusher and lipstick placed on his, well, leather face. It is a parody of the wholesome American family. The house is full of bones, animal and human, Sally's friends are in a freezer down below, and even the chair she sits on has human hands on the arms of it. It is distorted, and disgusting. The food served is likely human meat from past kills - there is a history of violence and insanity that seems to be imbued in the house itself.    

Sally begs for her release and is mocked by the hitch-hiker, and there is a fantastic montage of close-ups of Sally and the family, particularly Sally's eye-ball, which bulges in fear and horror at the situation she has found herself in. The family has the subtext of being butchers, however whether they were originally and became murderers, or used the techniques to dispose of the bodies is unclear. But what this achieves is a link to the slaughterhouses of the American South, the South also traditionally associated with more backwards social views, and the importance of family, and also, being rural and isolated, as we can see here as this family can operate with no worry of discovery or of anyone hearing the screams of their victims. This is reinforced by the gas station owner being part of the established world, with a job and responsibility, while also gleefully taking part in this twisted life.

The Grandfather also carries with him untold backstory, and the impression I got was that it's he who twisted his boys to join his psychopathy, bringing them into the fold to kill travelers and innocents. What this carries with it is generational history, these murders have been occurring for decades and it's now that we have the endpoint- Leatherface, an ugly child who is a monster through and through. After his first two kills in the early part of the film, Leatherface is shown frustrated by the act, and stomps around the living room, sitting down with this head in his hands - it's actually sympathetic. He is a victim of his family upbringing, only able to express himself by lashing out and killing, or through the adopted persona (subextually at least) of his leather-face. He is pitiable, but horrifying. 

The moment that is most revolting sees Sally's finger cut to drawn blood, and the grandfather wheeled over so that he can suck on the blood. This is where we see for sure that the grandfather is still alive and despite his age and weakness, he seems to take pleasure from the taste of the blood - again, giving us a wealth of untold back-story. Sally is naturally horrified at this perversion. She is the only woman here, and I think this is a parallel to breastfeeding, again tying it back to family, but so twisted as it is done with blood, by force, and given to the eldest member of the family. We see in Sally's eyes the fear of rape from the family, and indeed the thought is terrifying, particularly from Leatherface, however I think this is the true rape, as her body is sucked from by the decrepit old man. 

Later the younger members try and help him to have one last kill, hammering Sally's head but he is too frail to carry it out - it's almost compassionate and inclusionary to an older family member but as ever, is completely twisted. Similarly twisted is the 'female' presence of Leatherface, as his make-up colours him as either the mother of the group, or a daughter - and this in and of itself just shows how mentally ruined he is by this family - with no female presence to balance out this family, we can only wonder what happened to the mother, or mothers, of these children.

Both types of horror are fantastic in this film, but I think the family table, as a symbol of traditional American family-values being perverted is the most strong. It is the psychological perversion of this family unit by the grandfather, and the end-point of this perversion, Leatherface, that are truly horrifying, as it is harder to write off as the insanity of one murderer, but rather, the legacy of insanity throughout the years, and the notion that insanity can be passed on. The iconic final image of the film hammers this home, as the stunted child-like Leatherface dances with the chainsaw in silhouette against the sun, frustrated at the escape of his prey: a temper tantrum, with a chainsaw.

     

Object #51 - Hourglass - Jules and Jim (1962)

Dir. Francois Truffaut

The first 30 minutes of Jules and Jim are a whirlwind of images. In quick succession we are introduced to Jules (Oskar Werner), and (you guessed it), Jim (Henri Serre), the two city-goers, not doing much at all- sleeping with women, fencing, and viewing slideshows of ancient statues. That last one does seem a little unique, but that's the beauty of this rapid opening, you just have to roll with it as a viewer, with scenes swapping locations and topic nearly every minute; it's dizzying even to our modern eyes who are used to rapid cuts, particularly in our blockbusters. The two go to view one of the statues, as the smile of it has captured their interest, and here they meet a woman, Catherine (Jeanne Moreau) who looks just like the statue - thus enrapturing them both.

 We have already seen that Jim has a partner, Gilberte (Vanna Urbino), as well as Jules' sexual exploits prior to meeting Catherine. In one of these scenes Jules, a shy Austrian, is in bed with Therese (Marie Dubois), and he turns over a large hourglass, telling her that by the time it has run out, he'll be asleep. In a fantastic bit of symbolism, one that's endemic of Truffaut's entire approach to film, that is - mixing it up a bit, Therese takes Jules' cigarette, and smokes it backwards, circling the room blowing smoke, pretending she's a train. It's sex without showing sex, as the two fall into bed right after, with the sand falling...

As Jules and Catherine enter a relationship, Jim is told "Not this one" - clearly told that she is off limits both sexually and romantically to Jim. But of course, we love what we cannot have, and Catherine is certainly lovable. Jeanne Moreau is the star of the show throughout the film, as her giddy, take-what-come nature in the early section of the film is beautifully played, and indeed shot by Truffaut. The first screenshot above is actually paused within the scene itself, freezing the beauty of Catherine as she laughs at Jim/Jules' jokes. It's techniques like this, as well as the use of voice over (such as later on when we are told that Jim is in love with her as she dives into the river), that do so well what 'traditional' film does only with dialogue and 'standard' shots of events. By freezing moments of laughter we see that Catherine is beautiful throughout the entire action, as well as hammering home the fleeting nature of the action itself. This is why I chose the hourglass as the object for this film, as it symbolises the theme of the film for me - that theme being time, or more specifically, how relationships and people can change over time.

The catalyst for this change is the First World War, which Jules and Jim fight in, on different sides. This however is glossed over quickly with historic footage, and the rest of the film not really bringing it up, except as a reason for dividing the trio. Post-war, Jim visits Jules and Catherine in Austria, their new home, where their live with their young child, Sabine (Sabine Haudepin). The spectre of the war hangs over them however, not with PTSD or lost limbs, but as a wall between their old, care-free city life, and their current life in the countryside, as parents, and older men/women. Jim and Catherine do sleep with each other eventually, and we learn that Catherine has been cheating on Jules prior to this, a fact he's aware of. The majority of the film then focuses on this relationship triangle, as Catherine and Jim sleep together upstairs most nights, with Catherine occasionally spurning Jim, and being wooed all over again by Jules more restrained nature.     

The hourglass in fact, survives the war, but isn't used, only sitting in the back of scenes. Similarly, a painting Jim gave as a gift at Catherine and Jules' wedding also sits in the background, a survivor of the war, and an anchor to a better time. The relationship of Jim and Catherine degrades over time, as jealousy and distance erodes their passion. But as their love was so passionate and strong, it takes a long time for this to happen, as even in jealousy, neither man can stay away - best exemplified in a scene where they drive her to Albert's (Serge Rezvani), an on/off lover of Catherine's, and leave her the night there, with the car to drive home. 

Jim and Jules

The message of the film may be that time can degrade all things, including relationships. I think however the power of the theme is in retrospect, as the giddyness of the opening of Jules and Jim, both in plot and filmic construction, is that much more powerful in contrast to the end-point - Jules, alone, with the ashes of his friends, and the mid-point, the degrading relationship of the three. Shots are slower at the end, cuts less frequent, and the freeze-frame, frozen in time shots of a young Catherine laughing seem worlds apart from her openly asking Jules, who sits in his rocking chair, if Jim loves her?

  

Object #50 - Train carriages - Shoah (1985)

Dir. Claude Lanzmann

In words and images lie the power of Shoah. Lanzmann is particularly careful, across the entire 9.5 hours of the film, to ensure that the right images are paired with the right words. You could say this of every director worth their salt, but in Shoah, where the subject matter of the Holocaust is so entirely deserving of respect and reverence, it is clear Lanzmann has purpose in how he presents the myriad of interviews, with the footage taken at burial sites, death camps, and local surrounding areas. These interviews include survivors of the death camps, locals who lived near the camps, Nazis who ran them, Polish church-goers, resistance fighters, and countless others. Lanzmann often allows interviews to be shown in full, with his questions asked in French being translated into Hebrew/Polish/German by his translator, then answered in full by the interviewee, and the process continues backwards until he understands.

Some have criticized this as padding the runtime of this epic length film unnecessarily, but even here there is purpose, as we see the faces of the interviewees as they convey their often horrific memories of the Holocaust. For some of the survivors, they smile, as to cope with the memories, others stoically continue before eventually breaking down - an emotion Lanzmann does not present until almost five hours into the film, so that we have as much information possible before responding to the horror - an encapsulation I believe of his goal with this film; we must bear witness and understand before reacting to the inhumanity. And when they do break down, you will as well. I have only reacted once as strongly to the Holocaust, in the penultimate episode of Band of Brothers, yet here, in an undramatised fashion, with actual survivors of absolute hell, it is impossibly powerful. No one should live through such an event ever again. 

An image Lanzamann returns to throughout the entire film, and one that is well-known in the cultural memory of the Holocaust, is that of the train carriage. The train carriages transported any 'undesirables' the Nazis captured to death camps such as Treblinka or Auschwitz. Primarily Jewish people would be forced inside, with no food, no water, and left for dead until they reached their destination, where death would follow swiftly in the gas chambers, be they primitive in Treblinka, or 'sophisticated' in Auschwitz. We learn much about not only the chambers - their operation, the plight of the victims prior to and during gassing, the disposal of the bodies, but also of the carriages and how the Polish denizens of nearby towns to train tracks reacted to the horror taking place- giving water where they could, making symbols of death to warn unaware victims (e.g slicing the neck), yet being unable to help them escape for fear of death from Ukranian enforcers. Rebellion from the Jews was met with instant repercussion such as firing a rifle directly into carriages full of families. 

Some of these denizens react more strongly than others, such as a train driver who is constantly haunted by his inability to have helped any of the Jews, beyond letting them know of their fate down the track. Lanzmann shoots images of moving trains in the present day (the late 70's/early 80's at time of filming), with long carriages of cargo, often on the same tracks that were used to transport the victims. What this simply achieves is a visualization for the viewer of the space occupied by all the victims as we hear information about their plight, but also a stark reminder of the number of victims. The shots often linger, as the train continues on and on and on, and it breaks you...these trains were often coming every day for months at a time. Lanzmann provides us with the tools to visualize the plight, using it in static shots also, during interviews such as the one pictured above in the second screenshot. 

Early in the film we see a similar technique, as the mass grave (pictured above) is described through voice-over with a survivor, there is a long, long shot as the camera-operator walk down one length of the grave. You again realise that under here were bodies stacked like "sardines", with the bottom layer a mulch of biological matter due to the pressure of the weight - this is later mentioned again in the gas chambers themselves as we here a survivor tell of seeing children's skulls crushed by the victims clawing high to escape the gas, likely their parents included (this was possibly the image that hit me hardest in the film). As this shot continues and we picture this death, the camera turns on the shorter side, and returns, walking back the other side of the mass grave - and in your head you just think "Please, no more, I understand." But your discomfort can be nothing compared to the experience of the victims, those alive and dead. Lanzmann achieves in the simplest of cinematic terms something unprecedented that most dramatizations of the Holocaust fail to do, themselves often relying on the shock value of images, he achieves total empathy in the viewer and they are forced to use their imagination to picture the events, and there is nothing as personal in reaction as one's own images of the Holocaust - those which here stem from the actual facts of the onlookers, perpetrators, and victims of this historical event.   

Object #49 - Duke of Death Magazine - Unforgiven (1992)

Dir. Clint Eastwood 

Clint Eastwood puzzles me. How can a man who directed this masterpiece (and trust me, I don't use that word lightly), which deconstructs the Western hero so utterly that it's nigh impossible to have a pure western hero these days without it feeling false, go on to direct American Sniper? Eastwood as a director has a tendency to focus on mythological figures, heroes, normally American. Much of this comes from his tendency to direct westerns, which also tend to focus on the role of the cowboy, the outlaw, and the lawman in the Old West - Pale Rider, The Outlaw Josey Wales, and of course his final say on the topic, Unforgiven, which has William Munny (Clint Eastwood) - the outlaw brought back for 'one last job'; Little Bill Daggett (Gene Hackman), a morally dark sheriff; and English Bob (Richard Harris) a mythological foreign gunslinger. 

This tendency of Eastwood's has expanded to the modern American 'hero' - the U.S Army sniper, Chris Kyle in American Sniper, pilot Chelsey "Sully" Sullenberger in Sully, and to an extent, the older, veteran American male in Gran Torino. Indeed, one of his better explorations of 'heroes' was in his duology - Flags of Our Fathers and Letters of Iwo Jima, the latter of which, to myself and many, was far more interesting by portraying the Japanese side of the famous World War 2 battle. Iwo Jima had far more relatable characters than the U.S soldiers of Flags, avatars of manufactured propaganda diluted from their 'heroism'  - hell that was, in my opinion, the point of the film, particularly in their pairing. Frankly, that again makes American Sniper even more baffling to me because Eastwood utterly fails in his cinematic technique to undercut the 'heroism' of the sniper Chris Kyle, creating what many found to be a 'positive' portrayal of an American 'hero', rather than portraying him as what he was, a mentally-unsound government-sanctioned murderer riddled with PTSD and personal issues, clearly unfit to be an avatar of American heroism - ...or perhaps not, these are larger questions, ones Eastwood brings full circle in the final scene of Unforgiven, but we'll get to that.

Little Bill (Gene Hackman) - English Bob (Richard Harris)

Throughout Unforgiven, the mythology of the gunslinger/outlaw is explored. English Bob, in our introduction to him, is a foreigner who praises the Monarchy of Britain and challenges a proud American to a contest of shooting pheasants (on a moving train no less), to see which is better the Queen or "whoever it is you want". English Bob wins 8-1, displaying his sharpshooting skills. Skipping ahead, he is imprisoned by Little Bill, along with Bob's travelling biographer Beauchamp (Saul Rubinek). You can view the scene here. Little Bill reads from the magazine-cum-novel that Beauchamp has written about the famed exploits of English Bob. English Bob by all account out shot a man, Corkey Corchorane, to defend a woman's honour. The language used is flowery, which Beauchamp admits is a failing of his, but is so indicative of the style used to mythologize skilled gunmen, hell look no further than classic radio serials of famous lawmen (now isn't that an irony?) or cartoons, you know the style. The West is a land of myths, and exploits which give you nicknames, which are deconstructed so effectively by Little Bill (note the nickname) in one statement:

"First off, Corky never carried two guns (,..) oh a lot of folks did call him 'Two Gun", but that wasn't because he was sporting two pistols, that was because he had a dick so big, it was longer than the barrel of that Colt that he carried". 

It's hilarious, and we see that it's pulp authors like Beauchamp who are the reason that these tall tales become so popular, due to their misconstruing of facts, assumptions about silly nicknames, and complete blowing up of the truth - here done in earnest, by the personal narrative given to Beauchamp by English Bob, who is aiding in his own mythologization. Most authors probably twisted the truth anyway to make a better story. Little Bill goes on in the scene to tell the 'truth', as he was at the bar, where a drunk Bob shot at Corky for sleeping with a girl he fancied, missing the shot, making Corky leap to defend himself - thus shooting himself in the foot in haste. Bob fired and missed again, the "Duck" of Death (as Bill so eloquently mocks Bob) ready for death. Corky lines up the shot, *bam*, the guns blows up in his hand. Bill walks over slowly, and shoots Corky through the liver [seriously watch the scene because you get Gene Hackman performing that and it's phenomenal].

Now what is integral here is that we don't know if this is the truth. It probably is, and seems far more true than the gallant tale in Duke of Death, but nonetheless, Little Bill's aim with this re-telling is to mock English Bob. Bill takes it one step further as he and Beauchamp discuss the act of killing a man. He gives Beauchamp a loaded gun, and the key to Bob's cell, but Beauchamp can't kill Bill and escape to freedom, as we will later see repeated by the Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvett) who hesitates before his first kill, and Ned (Morgan Freeman) who can't return to a life of murder. In that later scene even Munny can't out and out kill one of the young men complicit in the slashing of the prostitute's face (the catalyst of the film's plot) right away, choosing to shoot his horse, breaking his leg. What is crucial in that scene however is that Munny, after missing twice (ambiguous whether it is from a reluctance to kill, or due to his self-professed inefficiency with a rifle), does shoot the man in the gut, returning to his ways of murder, with the end-goal of money from the prostitutes for 'justice'. He does however allow the boy a drink of water, promising not to shoot any member of the gang who gives him water, and so he does have decency - which was never really in doubt due to his earlier love for his children, and his re-established enduring love for his dead wife - but it portrays him as a complicated man - killing only for money, finding no love from it. 

Returning to the prison, Beauchamp muses that he could give English Bob the gun, and Little Bill is so firm in his belief that neither will kill in cold blood that he allows it to happen. As Beauchamp falters, Bill commands him to give Bob the gun. There is tension at to whether Bob will take it, but in the end he chooses not to, thus giving Bill the victory of 'proof' that the mythological Duke of Death is a coward. There is a further trick in that the first chamber of the gun was empty, which would have allowed Bill to win the duel regardless. There is even a further insult in that the other five chambers were full, giving Bill that slim chance of victory. If nothing else, this scene is a masterclass of villainy from Little Bob, played to peak performance by Hackman, rightfully deserving of his Oscar for the role. It is a further deconstruction though I think, what can appear to be a fair duel and battle of speed and will, can be as false as the tales they will go on to create. The Duke of Death magazine then acts as a symbol of this falsehood in the mythologizing of the Western hero.

English Bob is cast out of town, and Beauchamp remains to write about Little Bill, who he clearly sees as the 'true' symbol of the West that deserves to have stories told about. The role of the story-teller in myth and legend is integral to the entire process, and what we have in Eastwood as director is a further degree of this. Eastwood himself has portrayed the Man With No Name for Leone, and outlaws in his own work - often almost supernatural symbols of American justice, as in Pale Rider, and so there is a meta-textuality as Munny, spurred by the torture and humiliation of the honest Ned, fully embraces his past and goes to the bar to murder Little Bill. It is irrelevant whether the myth of Munny is true or not, but in Eastwood casting himself, it is almost like himself slipping into his old roles and (re-)becoming the mythological hero of the Leone films who could kill many men in a single shootout and live to tell the tale. 

In the final scene, after shooting Little Bill, he becomes the myth, avoiding gunfire (luck or skill? - does it matter?) and dispatching five men. He is not 'good' here. Little Bill was a sadist, yet a lawman, in another tale Little Bill's exploits throughout the film would have him be a hero (see American Sniper, ironically), and Munny was 'right' to kill him for what he did to Ned. But was Munny just in committing vengeance for the prostitutes by murdering the attackers - when he only did it for money? The money would have helped his children - does that make it better? He killed Little Bill for torturing his friend, a good man, and humiliating him after death (presenting his body outside the tavern, as a warning to further vengeance-seekers), but was he justified in killing the men, who did as lawman Little Bill commanded, to shoot Munny if Bill himself was killed? It was self-defense, but it was Munny who acted first by entering the tavern with murder in his heart. There is no good here, only shades of dark morality. This is Munny become legend, embracing it, promising to not only kill any man who tries to stop him leaving the town, but also their wives, and to burn their houses down.  

Beauchamp finally gets to witness a true Western event, and he aims to get every detail right before he goes - the number of dead, the weapon used, and the reasoning of Munny in the order of who he shot first. Munny doesn't care for this, drinking whiskey - the gateway to his old murderous ways throughout the film - and becoming this vengeful boogeyman, threatening him with a gun: "All I can tell you is who's gonna' be last [killed]". Just before this, Beauchamp, who thinks he'd been shot, was commanded by Munny, to pick up a gun, and to load it - a twisted morality where he'd want the story straight, that he only killed armed men. A falsehood as the first man he killed, the owner of the bar was unarmed. But what else is Beauchamp's character for if not to tell us this - it doesn't matter. It is his telling, as an actual eyewitness, which will be reported and made legend - and we know that his penchant for flowery language will enhance this event to mythological proportions. But Eastwood does this as well, and this is the cherry on top. As Munny leaves, his final words to the town; 

"You better bury Ned right!... Better not cut up, nor otherwise harm no whores... or I'll come back and kill every one of you sons of bitches."

He re-establishes his motive - vengeance for Ned; makes himself noble in his defense of the prostitutes (a lie as money was his initial motivator); and ends with a threat - becoming the boogeyman outlaw. What Eastwood does, which is genius, is shoot Munny to the left of an American flag- calling attention to the words paired with the meaning of the flag. In his last Western, one which tackles the mythologizing of the old West and their outlaws, he makes the American hero an outlaw who just can't stop killing - who will lie to others and to themselves, spurred into action by the lure of money. Masterful.