Object #43 - Snowdrops - The Revenant (2015)

Dir. Alejandro G. Inarritu

This is going to be another human moment post. The moment takes place at around the midpoint of The Revenant, where our protagonist, Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) is at a low, a place which he inhabits for the majority of the film. To keep it as spoiler free as possible, he meets a Native American, Hikuc (Arthur Redcloud) who is at first cautious of Glass, but who shares some bison meat with him regardless, and after hearing Glass' motivations, aids him in his injured state. The two ride together, this being the first companionship Glass has had in around 40 minutes of screentime. 

We get this beautiful scene where the two, who can actually understand each other, a change to most films dealing with Native Americans, nonetheless share a moment of bonding that doesn't require words. Hikuc sticks his tongue out, catching snowdrops on his tongue, chuckling as he does it. Glass mimics him, enjoying the moment. It's about the most joy he's had in the entire film. The two laugh. 

A snowstorm kicks up and Glass collapses, unable to go on due to his injuries. In another moment of supreme kindness in the harsh Frontier, Hikuc cuts down some firewood, lights a small campfire, and creates a wooden shelter for Glass. This is the second of three moments in the film where Glass is enwrapped, in comparative safety, before re-emerging, his injuries healing more and more each time. The first is his 'burial', where he is one with the land. This is the second, where objects of the land, trees, shelter him. The third, the inside of a dead horse, is him within a dead living creature. Each time he emerges re-born, and the final is a clear allegory of re-birth; a new man, with a singular purpose, born from the dead.

Glass awakes this second time with Hikuc gone. He has left behind some provisions, and has done well by Glass in creating the shelter. An unspoken bond ties the two together, in an act of human kindness. Spoilers here, apologies. Glass later comes across Hikuc's corpse, hanging from a tree. He has a sign in French around his neck, and even to a non-French speaker, the meaning is clear - he was murdered due to his being a 'savage'. It's all the more powerful because we know that Hikuc was one of the most human of humans Glass had encountered in the film. 

It's all the more depressing as we realize that he was killed by the same group of Frenchmen who we saw earlier in the film, led by Toussaint Charbonneau (Fabrise Adde). The Frenchman, despite some coercing, honoured their agreement with the chieftain Elk Dog (Duane Howard), and respected his quest to save his daughter Powaqa (Melaw Nakeehk'o). This, it turns out, was a bold-faced lie. They were the kidnappers of Powaqa, and we see Toussaint rape Powaqa, who is freed by Glass. It adds a sense of moral corruption and grey area in a film that has, for the most part, been fairly morally clear. 

The entire sequence has a lot going on, but what I want to focus on is the fact that Hikuc as a character fulfills his goal here, showing that even the most (at least to our eyes) morally good of people and groups can act in what appears to be counter-intuitive ways. The rape of Powaqa is a little on the nose, but it hammers home the message that the Native Americans were being ruined by the invading white men, of all creeds and colours. We see that in far subtler ways with Hikuc, and indeed the backstory of Glass and his motivations are very much tied to the ruining of the Native Americans. Their portrayal as inhuman attackers in the introductory scene, and for the most part of the film, is clearly more a way of conveying how the attacked perceive them, rather than being a condemnation, thank Inarritu!

As the film goes on the morals become hazier, and the Native Americans are present in the cumulative moment of revenge. I love The Revenant's discussion and exploration of the Native Americans, despite them not being the focus of the film itself. They are however integral to the Frontier, and it is fitting that their mythology and presence is felt at key moment of the film - most prominently the beginning, the middle, and end. 

Object #42 - Doors - Evil Dead (2013)

Dir. Fede Alvarez 

It's Halloween season! Time to break out the horror films. I can't say I'm massively well-versed in the genre, but I do enjoy them if they're done well. I'm missing a lot of the classics like Friday the 13th and the original Dawn of the Dead, but I've caught up lately on the Nightmare on Elm Street films, and I've seen quite a few classics like The Exorcist and The Thing; and the even more vintage Universal monster flicks such as Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Mummy, and Dracula. Honestly, as long as there aren't a bunch of cheap jump-scares, I'll probably enjoy it.

The Evil Dead series has never been serious horror. The first film, released back in 1981, is a lovely bit of cheap-horror that has since solidified the 'teens-in-the-cabin-in-the-woods' mythology of horror, as satirized in, well, Cabin in the Woods. It's not scary-per-se, in fact, a lot of the makeup looks a bit goofy these days, but it's clearly structured like a straight horror film, with a little levity in the dialogue. The second quickly re-caps the plot of the first film before descending (or should that be ascending?) into the best wacky comedy-horror put to film. Army of Darkness is pretty much an action-comedy that just happens to continue from the second film. My point is, the Evil Dead franchise is less about frightening you, and more about having a fun time, it just so happens to involve demonic possession, a rape-tree, and a lot of blood.

The 2013 remake, as far as I'm concerned, is one of the best horror films of the last five years. Now now, don't get me wrong, it doesn't hold a candle to It Follows or The Babadook for actual fright/creep factor, but as we've established, Evil Dead has never been about that. But within the horror genre, it's so damn fun. It's gross, cringe-inducing, funny, and more than anything, visceral. You feel what the characters go though, with every single one taking a hell of a beating, and each one deserving any victory they get. It's remarkably well-shot, well-produced (the cabin is gorgeously constructed), and of course, has great CG/make-up work when everything gets a bit stabby. The only possible mark-down I can give it is a little bit of pacing issues, not the best sign for a 90 minute film, but it is such a bare-bones story in the first place that I cut it some slack. By all other criteria, Evil Dead (2013) is a fine film.

So - doors. The demonic entity awoken by Eric (Lou Taylor Pucci) primarily takes influence by possessing Mia (Jane Levy) and spreading from there. However, I noticed that the only other physical influence it has, beyond spreading biologically through vomit or blood, is by slamming doors shut. It's actually impressive how much it achieves by shutting a few doors. The obvious to note here is the trap-door leading to the Necronomicon book in the basement, which contains the words to awake the demon. This trap-door is pretty iconic for the shot in the first picture, also present in the original film. Mia is thrown into the basement, the trap door shutting her in. 

After Olivia (Jessica Lucas) is infected, becomes possessed, and begins to move towards Eric in the bathroom to kill him, what does the demon do? It shuts the door. It's making sure that no-one will interrupt the murder, and stopping Eric from getting away. Functionally it also remind us of the power it holds. Later, Natalie (Elizabeth Blackmore) sees the trap-door suddenly open, and hears Mia crying, luring her to enter the basement. The demon is clearly having fun with the slow-burn of killing these teenagers, as it has the power to open the trap-door at any time. It relinquishes Mia, having her give an honest performance of fear and confusion, leading Natalie into her domain.

The box-cutter scene happens, and yes, it's gross in all the best ways. After Natalie is rescued from the possessed Mia, David (Shiloh Fernandez) chains it shut. The demons toys with this as it pokes it's head up through the gap in the trap-door, taunting Natalie as she resits infection. Doors then, particularly the trap-door, are important set-ups for different power-struggles between the teens and the demon. 

Later into the film, as David returns to get the keys so that he and the now, demon-free Mia can leave, he is critically wounded by the dead Eric, who he forgot was still in the house and open to possession. What's important however, is that David is now the one who has the power, as he shuts the door, locking Mia out of the house, so that he can now shoot a gasoline can, killing himself, Eric, and burning the cabin. After this then, there is no upper-hand between demon and human. There are no more doors to toy with on either side. The Abomination admittedly is stronger than the regular undead, however Mia evens the score with a chainsaw, and eventually wins out.  

Actually, now I think about it, I could mention the car door of the Jeep. The classic horror-trope of reaching for the keys on the floor, sudden enemy in the window, attack on the the driver does happen here. So that's score-one for demon when it comes to doors. The car is tipped over, crushing Mia's hand and pinning it to the floor, under the door. She struggles, boy does she struggle, tearing her arm away from her hand, giving her the advantage of reaching the chainsaw; (Also, calling back to the original films in an original way, good-going Alvarez!), score-one (and match) to Mia for escaping the hold of the door and being able to end the demon. 

It's basic story-telling at the end of the day I suppose. What do doors do? They stop people from leaving rooms, they are an antagonist in the most basic sense, but when possessed by a demon, they're definitely an antagonist. Why demons don't just possess guns or knives instead of wooden doors I don't know! Actually, yes I do, because that wouldn't be fun, and if there's anything Evil Dead is, it's fun. 

Object #41 - Comb - Three Colours: White (1994)

Dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski

Kieslowski's Three Colours trilogy is some of greatest drama I've seen put to film. With Tokyo Story in the last post, I seem to be gravitating towards human dramas lately! Unfortunately, I fall in with the general opinion that White is the least effective of the three films, with Blue and Red shifting in my estimation depending on my mood, Blue usually wins out though. All three films have a heavy focus on objects as symbols, as well as colour, naturally, and so it felt right to finally add one of them to the blog.

If you don't plan on watching White, then watch this video from the sublime Criterion Collection, which acts as a sort of visual guide to the film. It also includes a brief clip of the scene with the comb. Stranded in Paris, penniless, (well, he has a two franc coin, an important object in and of itself) abandoned by his wife (Julie Delpy), Polish-born Karol Karol (Zbigniew Zamachowski) has to sing through a comb to beg for any change the Parisian underground travelers will offer him. Luckily, a fellow Pole, Mikolaj (Janusz Gajos), offers him a plan to return to Poland. 

To be brief, and to quote, Jack Sparrow "complications arose, ensued, were overcome". Karol re-established himself in Poland, and turned to a life of crime. Now don't get the wrong idea from that sentence, it doesn't suddenly turn into a gangster film, but nonetheless, Karol grows through crime with his business partner Mikolaj. Their relationship is a complicated one, with suicide, murder, and soul-searching involved, but all you need to know is that they have a deep history, tracing all the way back to the underground in Paris. 

The moment the comb comes around and serves a greater purpose is around 2/3rds of the way into the film. Karol now uses the comb (it isn't clear if it's the same comb, but it is likely), as, just that,  a comb. He is suited, with slicked-back hair, a man of means. He has risen from that underground and now finds himself in a new high-rise building he's bought thanks to his business dealings. He turns to Mikolaj, pulls out the comb and a handkerchief, and hums the very same tune.  

This moment comes about an hour after the underground scene, after many plot and character developments, but this object, and the world of difference in the context in which it's used, brings us right back to the empty, hopeless world Karol began from. It is a symbol that with the right help, and a bit of luck, a man can make himself anything. 

The theme of the film is equality, as denoted by the colour white, based on the French flag. This taps into that, with every person being equal to make something of themselves, just as they are equal to have some beneficial luck. The equality theme extends to Karol's wish for revenge against his wife, with him wanting to leave her just as alone and hopeless as he was. Does he succeed? Go watch the film and find out!     

Compared to some of the other objects from the entire trilogy, the comb is relatively simple. I like it nonetheless and I'm likely at some point in time to return to the other two films in the trilogy. Honestly, I think the comb is only so simple in the context of the trilogy. Kieslowski is so very good at what he does that he has numerous objects in the same film that act as symbols, have resonance, and this is atop his masterful use of colour (he really does sell the concept of a colour theme for liberte, egalite, and fraternite). These are superb films in every right: cinematography, acting, score, every single aspect of the film is on-point, with a slight script and editing sag in White. As you can tell though, it's still a very subtle and nuanced film, and one that can stand equal with the other two films in the trilogy, which is of course, quite fitting.  

Object #40 - Hand fan - Tokyo Story (1953)

Dir. Yasujiro Ozu 

Ozu's Tokyo Story topped the 2012 Sight and Sound director's poll of the greatest films of all time, and came third in the combined critics and directors poll, behind Vertigo, and Citizen Kane. This is a phenomenally well-regarded film. It gladdens me immensely that a film that only moves the camera once can be so well-regarded by the great directors of the world. This a film that is still. No fancy moving one-shots, no fancy lighting effects, just a camera placed strategically well, and a scene played out by actors. The story is just as simple, two grandparents visit their children and grandchildren for a few days. That's the premise. The only narrative development is that the grandmother, Tomi (Chieko Higashiyama), falls critically ill and dies shortly after their return. 

I've spoken before about how one human moment can redeem a film for me. Tokyo Story, in under two hours, made me mourn the loss of this woman. I genuinely felt a profound sense of loss for the remainder of the film without her. How is this achieved? Human moments, human moments in abundance. I'm actually not going to go into them, because I'd essentially be reading you the script, it's that good. The relationships between the visiting family members will be immediately familiar to anyone who has visited/has been visited by extended family. The reality of the drama is spot-on, and is accurately acted even by the younger actors.

Anyway, I'm blabbing on. The reason I chose the hand fan, or rather fans, from this film is a bit of an obtuse way of discussing how Tomi's death resonates with the audience. Throughout the film, and I really do mean throughout, people use fans to keep themselves cool, naturally. In the beginning of the film, as we are introduced to Tomi and her husband, Shukichi (Chishu Ryu), with them chatting to each other in the gentle, calm way that life partners of a certain age do. No grand gestures of love, the dialogue itself fairly mundane, but it speaks wonders of the deep, deep love the two share. A neighbour walks by the window, and has a brief, neighbourly chat about their going away to visit family in Tokyo. It seems to be a nice routine, and is, again, immediately recognizable to all of us.

Jumping to the end of the film, Shukichi sits in the same room, alone, fanning himself. If you haven't seen the film, then I hope I'm conveying my message here with the structure of this post. For that neighbour, nothing has changed except that Tomi no longer sits with Shukichi. She does know of the death, and sympathizes with Shukichi, but she has no idea of the relationship development Tomi and Shukichi went through with their family in her final days. It's nothing drastic, but it tells us magnitudes about the characters and the family. The most monumental character moment actually occurs due to her death, with Shukichi giving Noriko (Setsuko Hara) Tomi's watch as a memento. He gives this to his daughter-in-law, widowed due to the death of his son, and despite no blood relation, he emphasizes that she was the one who treated the two of them the best during the visit. It's heartrendingly beautiful, and I nearly chose the watch as the object for this reason. I honestly think if I grew up in Japan, where family bonds are so strong, that this moment would be even more powerful. 

So why the fan? Because it's unchanging. People change, people die, people drift from their parents. The fan is a constant in the film despite all the developments that occur. True, there's one less fan in the ending, and true, Shukichi, in his own restrained way is clearly grief-stricken in his discussion with the neighbour: "If I knew things would come to this, I'd have been kinder to her. Living alone like this, the days will get very long". But despite all this change, he still needs to cool himself with a fan, as do others. The fan, to me at least, links the personal story of this family to the wider world of Japan, as well as to the world at large, across time. It's a cliche, but the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

Objects #38 + #39 - Hershey's Chocolate Bar / Mercedes-Benz GLE Coupe - Wings (1927) / Jurassic World (2015)

Dir. William A. Wellman / Colin Trevorrow 

This post has been mulling around in my head since seeing Jurassic World a few months ago, but it wasn't until I recently saw William Wellman's silent-blockbuster Wings (the first Best Picture winner at the Academy Awards) did I have the drive to write it up. This is a sort of combination of two posts so I'll start off with Wings then head into Jurassic World. 

Fairly early in Wings, our two rivals Jack Powell (Charles Rogers), and David Armstrong (Richard Arlen) find themselves in an army tent, situated at an airfield, ready for their pilot's training. In walks Cadet White, played by a scene-stealing Gary Cooper, who, attired in age-defying cool pilot's gear, tells the two of his exploits as a pilot, essentially showing these young soldiers-to-be how cool they can be. He takes out a Hershey's chocolate bar, offers them some, and eventually throws it onto the cot, which we see in close-up. He dons his leather cap and goggles, and leaves to do a few death-defying runs around the airfield, no big deal in his world. We see a close-up of him smiling and nodding at the two.

Not long after, we hear the sound of a plane crash (at least we do on the version I viewed. I believe the sound effects would have been done live in the theater at the time.), and just as we may have expected, White has been killed in the accident. The two are stunned, as are we in spirit as this character, not on screen for five minutes, was so charismatic and likable that it's a shock and a tangible waste. If men like this can die on home-ground, what will the Great War bring? It's a reminder before seeing the epic battle-scenes that war is costly, as good men such as White are destroyed by the war machine.  

Now, here's the extra-crux of the scene. You can view the end of it here. In the wake of his death, the chocolate bar is returned to, in close-up. It lies on the scarf of the now deceased pilot, and that's the point. By focusing on the simple joy of a chocolate bar earlier in the scene, the feeling of loss brought about by the death of Cadet White is deepened, and this is reflected by the characters on-screen as we see the bar abandoned forever. The simple pleasure it brought White is rendered pointless by his death. Or maybe it doesn't, but that's another topic.

The close-up however is quite long, just a little too long to be there for the artistic merit, and is clearly there, lingering, long enough for us to make out the name of the bar, Hershey's. It's product placement! Simple as that. Now if you're on the same wavelength as I was viewing the scene, this can seem quite cynical, as if this (admittedly, fictional) man's death is being used to sell chocolate bars. But actually, if its inclusion was enough to fund the film, as well as acting as a symbol of war's effect on the innocent, then surely it's worth it? The answer is up to you. Personally, I'd say so. The very fact that I can read a fair bit of depth out of a chocolate bar is merit enough really, as I know I'm not the only one who'll have done so.

Jurassic World on the other hand, on the surface level, makes no such artistic merit out of its product placement. Every car in the film is a Mercedes-Benz, to an unrealistic degree, and as you can see above, was used outside of the film as dual-promotion for the car, as well as the film itself. It works both ways. People interested in the car may go see the film to see it vs. dinosaurs (which is exactly what the poster above conveys), and people viewing the film may think "Hey, that car looks cool", and it will stick in their mind when they consider a new car purchase; that's the goal anyway. Does that serve the film's message a jot - no, it doesn't. 

But, and here's the crux, Jurassic World is so chock-full of product-placement (The Verzion Indominus Rex, Beat's headphones, Starbucks - a comprehensive list here) that it becomes artistic. ...stay with me here. The film deals with the demands of the public for fresh, new, entertainment through the genetically engineered Indominus Rex, designed to be larger than a T-Rex, smarter than a T-Rex, and more than anything, more frightening. Frankly, if you came out of this film not reading the subtext of the increasing need for bigger, badder antagonists in film franchises (Jurassic World included, the Spinosaurus being the main offender from Jurassic Park III) then you missed the stupidly blatant message.

I'm not a fan of this film, mainly because it has it's cake and eats it with regard to this theme. "Oh look at us, aren't we clever satirizing Hollywood franchises...hey, look at this cool dinosaur. Look at it! It turns invisible, isn't that cool!". Also, the film is shoddily written (nay, abysmally written), directed, and is really, really generic. It's a by-the-numbers Hollywood film that takes the piss out of itself, and yet has broken nearly every box office record out there. It's literally laughing all the way to the bank, product placement money in tow. The saddest thing for me is that audiences clearly only want dinosaurs vs. humans (with some bonus dino vs. dino action) to keep them amused. Like the audiences at the theme park, they want to see a show, a Mosasaurus, tapped in a tank, eating a shark (ha ha, we're bigger than Jaws - oh fuck off Trevorrow), then they can go home, talk about it for a few days or so, then get on with their lives. Maybe they'll buy a stuffed Mosasaur toy on the way out, or maybe the real audience will buy a Mercedes. 

At the end of the day I'm conflicted. Jurassic World is so garish with product placement that I find it hard to believe Trevorrow let in in without at least trying to make a point. Is that too haughty of me? Or is the point so simple - theme parks are only there to sell you things via entertainment/movies are only there to sell you things via entertainment - that it's just offensive. Films can be so much more than a cheap thrill, funded by large companies. As we see with Wings, the artistic merit can override the intended effect, or rather, work in tandem. You could argue that Jurassic World's product placement does enhance the film's message, and I would agree with you actually. The fact that the film lacks artistic merit beyond this one theme however is enough to sour the entire film for me. Nothing else in the film is potent enough, the militaristic subtext of living weapons, the film franchise satire, none of it. If the only true good, artistic thing I can say about Jurassic World is it's product placement, then this isn't a film for me. The numbers however, disagree, and that's just tragic. We deserve far more from even our blockbuster films than this shallow piece of entertainment. 

Object #37 - Spaghetti & Meatballs - Lady and the Tramp (1955)

Dir. Clyde Geronimi + Wilfred Jackson + Hamilton Luske

"Oh this is the night

It's a beautiful night

and we call it bella notte"

Is there a more famous dish in cinema? The spaghetti and meatballs served for Lady (Barbara Luddy) and Tramp (Larry Roberts), combined with the beautiful song 'Bella Notte', is an enduring image of romance years after the release of the film. You only have to hear "This is the night" to be whisked away in your mind to the atmosphere of the romantic back alley.

Honestly this scene is so perfect that I feel writing about it in depth is just clunky and takes away from the beauty of it. But I'm going to anyway because it deserves it; I'll be as brief as possible.

In this one dish, the class barriers are not broken down, they are unified. The scene takes place in the back alley of an average Italian restaurant, run by the boisterous Tony (George Givot), who welcomes Tramp, an enjoyable visit from a stray dog to perk up his night. Tony and his chef Joe (Bill Thompson) prepare a meal of spaghetti and meatballs, not bones as Joe first tires and is scolded for, as this is a romantic date between Lady and Tramp. By having humans buy into this idea is wonderful, as it's incredibly un-cynical and enjoyable, as is Tony's character in general, and the double-act aspect of him and Joe. The candlelit dinner is something that Lady, reflecting her upper class owners, would be expected to take part in on a date. It's classically romantic (honestly, these days, probably due to the influence of this scene which we all view as kids). Having it in a back alley bridges the gap with the lower class, and the restaurant itself is fairly low-rent. 

How the spaghetti and meatballs are used is genius. The accidental kiss that occurs due to both dogs slurping the same piece of spaghetti and meeting lips, is innocent, accidental, and brings the two to their natural end-point. As Lady bashfully turns her head away in embarrassment, Tramp, in a fantastically romantic move, rolls the last meatball with his nose to her side of the plate, a sign that the kiss was exactly what he wanted, and that he feels affection for her. It also does something beyond human, as nose rolling is something dogs do naturally, and so it combines the anthropomorphic human elements of the scene: the table, the candle, so on, with the true animal nature of the pair, which to us humans, is doubly cute, and makes the moment that much better.

Eating spaghetti is also a naturally messy process. We see Lady slurp the string in surprise, breaking down her class, her 'superiority' for this meal, ergo her 'superiority' for a dog of Tramp's class. It informs the two of them that Lady is stepping down, and Tramp's staging of the meal is his way of stepping up. The two classes, unified in love. 

The music is the glue. It's an unabashed love song about savouring the beautiful night, not alone, but with a loved one. "The stars' in their eyes" is a fantastically simple lyric - the 'beautiful' night is brought right down the eyes of the one you love. "The night will weave its magic spell" is right, and it's done here by the magic of animation, humanity and animal-ity (you get my meaning) combined, and of course, music. It taps into every nervous first date we've had, will have, or have yet to have; our love of animals, particularly dogs, as a species; and our deep-down love for an unabashed love song.

Object #36 - Razor - Koyaanisqatsi (1982)

Dir. Godfrey Reggio

Koyaanisquatsi is an experience. Around the half-way mark, as a shot of a motorway packed with cars is shown, with accompanying music by Philip Glass, I was intrigued, in awe, and more than anything, exhausted. There is no dialogue in Koyaanisquatsi, no plot, no characters. The entire film is composed of shots of nature (primarily canyons), factories, airports, the city, and people. With only these tools, and a fantastically epic, brooding, sweeping score by Glass, I was left exhausted and anxious. It's masterful film-making, and one of the biggest steps in the use of montage since Battleship Potemkin, which I've written about previously. It's also one of the few times where the 'Life out of balance' (this being the translation of the Hopi word koyaanisquatsi) theme was conveyed by the film to me. Why in that shot of the motorway? I couldn't really tell you. I think it may be due to the simply overwhelming feeling of LIFE in those cars. Those are real people in those cars, captured on film, and still being viewed to this day thanks to this film.

This is where the razor come in. Nearer to the end of the film, we begin to see portraits of people, usually walking the street. They can see the camera, and do in fact look at the camera either directly or out of the corner of their eye. Their behaviour shifts due to their observation. This is a psychological and social phenomenon called the Observer Effect.  It's here in Koyaanisquatsi in pure form. Out of the many beautiful shots of people in this sequence, it is the old man with the disposable razor that stood out to me the most.

An aside, Blade Runner is probably my favourite film. At the end of that film, we have the monologue by the dying android Roy Batty. 

I've... seen things... you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion; I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate... All those... moments... will be lost, in time, like [chokes up] tears... in... rain. Time... to die.

This moment of film is the most beautiful I've ever experienced. It has stuck with me since I saw it for the first time, and it will stay with me for the rest of my life. I can even recite it from memory. Due to this, it weaves into my viewing of other films when relevant. In Koyaanisquatsi, in any moment when people are on screen, whether in close up or at a distance, I thought of the final part of that monologue. "All these moments will be lost in time". Here, on film, these moments survive. Look at the above screenshot. It's beautiful. That man's face is beautiful. The bags under his eyes, his hat, the way his jaw slackens as he stares right down the lens of this intruding camera. There are around 10 or so people portraits in the sequence, not including crowd shots. Each is beautiful in their own way. So why the old man with the razor?

Simply put, because it's unique. In this sequence of the film we see shots of factory workers, people driving around the city, and crowd shots, all sped up via time-lapse. It's astoundingly effective, making me think how like ants we appear as our crowd behaviour governs us as an entire species. The only true individuals in these overhead shots of crowds at a train concourse are the ones who chose to stay still in the middle of the crowd for an extended amount of time, but they also pass, in time. Contrasted with this is the slow motion shots of people walking the street, and so we study them, as they are not in a crowd, they are people, individuals. 

The old man with the razor is unique among this crowd. Mainly, due to the brightly coloured razor. He is shaving himself in this public city street, with no care in the world as to how socially acceptable this is. To be honest, it isn't exactly socially unacceptable, but it's unusual. In the context of the film though it comes across as a life-raft of individuality in the sea of interchangeable crowd members. His age though makes me think that this individuality is transient. To be blunt, he'll die sooner than the rest of the crowd, and so it feels pointless. Actually, even without his age, due to the editing of the film, we know that this man will be lost to us. This moment of individuality will be lost not only in the real world, but in the context of the film, as we see another crowd shot, another person in slo-mo, another landscape shot. 

Beauty comes from the fact that this moment was captured, and due to the editing of the sequence, is unique. This man shaving has reached an enhanced meaning due to its inclusion in the film, and this only happened due to him walking the street at this exact moment in time, and choosing to shave at this exact moment. Think of the chain of events that led to this moment being captured. His choice of when to shave at all times in his life for his hair to grow long enough to choose to shave on the street; the documentarians choosing that place to record, and that particular time; and the choice to include this person in the edit, and at this specific time in the film. I love this idea in general, the causal chain-of-events of life.  You know what's really great about Koyaanisquatsi? The very fact that it's acted as a looking glass for this interpretation. Other films do this, but honestly every person who views Koyaanisquatsi will have their own response to it, and to this single moment of a man and his razor.