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.

Objects #47 + #48 - Swing-set / Pram - Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978) / Spotlight (2015)

Dir. Philip Kaufman / Tom McCarthy 

Unease can be conveyed in film in startlingly unique ways. As you would expect, horror films tend to dabble in this area significantly,  crossing over into other emotive responses like dread, anxiety, or tension. Both Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and Spotlight deal with issues that make us uneasy. Body Snatchers deals with insidious alien invaders, with this re-make less a reaction to the Red Scare (as in the 1956 original), but more the conformity and group-think nature of humanity as a whole. Spotlight on the other hand finds unease in the response to wide-scale paedophilic abuse of children by priests in positions of power. 

In Spotlight, there is a scene where investigative reporter, Sacha Pfeiffer (Rachel McAdams) questions abuse victim Joe Crowley (Michael Cyril Creighton) about the specifics of his abuse by his local priest. In an earlier scene this interview began, with the two in a busy coffee shop. Pfeiffer's urging of Crowley for specifics causes him to tell her that they should get the coffees 'to go'. We are already reminded of the taboo nature of the interview and the events that will be described, with Crowley wanting to avoid anyone overhearing their discussion. When we cut back to the two, they walk in a park, Joe holding his coffee cup, nervously describing how his priest preyed on his blossoming childhood homosexuality, inviting him over for strip poker games, which would lead to sexual abuse. In a genius piece of direction and editing, we see Crowley and Pfeiffer pause their conversation as a mother pushing a pram walks by. The camera cuts briefly behind the two, as we see the pram pass them, then cuts back to Crowley, nervously continuing. 

I think this is genius as it's almost literally blink-and-you'll-miss-it, yet it is has significant power in again reminding us of the presence of vulnerable children in Boston, as well as the parents who would react negatively to not only the abuse of children being described in detail, but also, being set in 2000/2001, to Crowley's homosexuality. The entire premise is full of taboo, which the Spotlight reporters wish to break in order to call attention to a serious abuse of power. The scene ends with the two gazing up at a large church, in direct vicinity to the playground and park they'be been walking through, hammering home the serious vulnerability of Boston's children due to wide-spread religious influence being wholly accepted, and church priests being seen as innocent. As Crowley and other victims describe - how do you turn down requests from avatars of God, even if you don't understand that it's abuse?  

Also of note is how in the entire film, children are rarely seen, despite them being one of the two groups of focus of the Spotlight team. The other group, priests, are seen more, however McCarthy chooses to focus the film almost entirely on the investigation, rather than the child victims (as children, rather than grown adults) or the priests who commit the abuse. The pram then is even more powerful a symbol due to its rarity in the film.  

In Body Snatchers, the unease is directly externalized in the image of a priest, in full garb, swinging on a swing-set. What is similarly genius in the film is the simplicity in conveying this unease. By having famous actor Robert Duvall cameo in this one instance in the film, the audience reacts to the priest in the opening scene by going "Hang on, is that Robert Duvall? What the fuck is he doing in this movie?" (Ok that's how I responded, but you get the gist). The recognizability of Duvall, and his unexpected appearance make the image, that of a priest playing on the swing-set with a child (already creepy in its own right) that much odder, and thus more uneasy. His bland, stoic expression also adds to this unease, as he clearly doesn't enjoy the swinging - so what is he doing it for? He stares blankly at Elizabeth (Brooke Adams), and is the precursor to how the pod-people (the converted humans) react to humans throughout the film for the most part - with disinterested, yet focus. 

Here, the imagery of a priest and child playing, unconsciously suggests that the relationship between the alien invaders and humans will be like that of a priest abuser and a child, with the priest knowing what he does is wrong (perhaps less so with the alien invaders, who seem far more primal and biological in their take-over), and the child, unaware of the insidious nature of the abuse, like the humans unaware of the take-over until it is far too late to stop. 

There are far more horrifying, tense, and bizzare images in the film, however this initial image works fantastically in setting the scene and priming the viewer that yes, shit will get weird in this film. The half-converted dog with a hobo's face, and Donald Sutherland's final scream stick with me always as effective moments of film horror, as well as this scene with the swing-set. That three phenomenally creative and effective moments come from the same film is a testament to Kaufman, in his update of the 1956 original. Spotlight shares the subtext of priesthood abuse, and also has other moments of profound unease, such as Pfeiffer's door-way interview with an abuser who shows no remorse for his actions, and the presence of a priest known to be an abuser living down the street from Matt Carroll (Brian d'Arcy James), a Spotlight member with children. 

Both films seriously deserve watching, and if you want creepy insidious themes, then watch these, not Insidious...these are way better. 

Object #46 - Plane - Land of Silence and Darkness (1971)

Dir. Werner Herzog 

Disability can be a tragedy. 

In viewing Herzog's Land of Silence and Darkness, you contemplate the existence of the deaf-blind. The documentary, a short 85 minutes in length, tied not only geographically to Germany, but chronologically to the early 70's, manages to explore almost the entire spectrum of the deaf-blind, from those born with the disability, to those who know what it is to see and hear, but have lost the ability, as well as nearly everything inbetween. The film focuses on Fini Straubinger, a remarkable woman who champions the deaf-blind of Germany, as she visits these varied permutations of the deaf-blind, campaigns for their acknowledgment in a world which routinely forgets their existence, and simply by appearing in the documentary - has made this message timeless.

I could honestly write and write and write about this film but I'll keep it focused. Early in the film, after a few scenes establishing Fini, Elsa, and the way in which they communicate, we see them visit an airfield. Incidentally, they communicate entirely by touch, with a sign language designed for the deaf-blind, as they stroke and tap each others' fingers and palm. 

Step back here, and imagine it. You can speak entirely coherently, however being deaf you do not traditionally 'hear' it, more feeling the vibrations of the throat. You do not see the person you are speaking to, nor can you hear them speak. For two deaf-blind people to communicate, they use touch, and enunciate using the hand and palm. Later in the film Fini elaborates on the difficulty of meet-ups for a large number of the deaf-blind, as each of them requires a non-disabled friend or family member to aid them in not only reaching the meet-up location, but also to act as a guide as to having two deaf-blind people understand who they are communicating with, where that person (and themselves) are in the room, and other details such as if they have company, what they're wearing, etc.. ...can you imagine?! And yet Fini and her friends stand tall, and live a life full of meaning, in a world of, well, silence and darkness.

See I'm getting side-tracked again. Scene: Airfield. Fini and Elsa are guided to a stationary prop plane on the airfield so that they can experience something new. A day-trip, where not only do we see them touch this completely foreign object, but they sit in it, and experience flight in utter darkness and silence. Their guide describes the plane's wing that they feel with their hand in context, relating it to the size of a car, something that they are familiar with, and using units of distance and size, frankly, as you would with a blind person. However in an utterly utterly human way, we see Fini's familiarity with the process, as she places her hand out so that it can be guided to Elsa so that they can chat about the experience. She is, by her disability, helpless, but her body language and attitude do not convey this. She, who was not born deaf-blind, but became so early in life, has had to rely on people nearly all her life, and yet here she has drive, she has goals, even if it is simply to share her thoughts with Elsa. 

Within the plane, we see them experience take-off and flight itself, which, as you likely know, is a very strong feeling, something the deaf-blind can share with us non-disabled. The feeling of turbulence, wind drag, and air pressure change. They cannot see the large expanse of Germany from up on high, nor can they hear the engines - but they can feel them. And thanks to the help of their guides and friends, they can understand what does surround them, mechanically in the plane, and what is outside the windows. The two reach forward and behind so that they can discuss the experience, tapping away at their palms. 

Again, in a late scene on a train, Fini describes her experience as being one of complete solitude and loneliness, with the touch of another like ripples in an otherwise still pond. It's poetry, sheer, profound poetry, and one which comes from a place remarkably unique. You could view the inability to hear the laughter of a child, or the inability to view Germany on high from a plane as a tragedy, yet out of this tragic disability, and I mean that in the core sense of the word - the inability to do something fundamental, is humanity. A human experience reflected and refracted by physical boundaries, but nonetheless human.

You can view the entire film on YouTube, (unfortunately with no English subtitles) and the plane scene begins at around 5:25. I've just re-watched it and my god I forgot how happy Elsa is! She's at least 60, and yet at one point she clasps her hands to her chest in glee, like a young girl. It's beautiful. Disability can be a tragedy, and indeed Herzog does not shy away from this, as we see a born deaf-blind boy later in the film struggle aimlessly within what we know of as a dark and silent void. It wouldn't be Herzog without darkness, and yet despite this being one of his very early works, as well as a documentary, it still has the hallmark that nearly every Herzog film has - that darkness accompanies life, but we would not appreciate life anywhere near as much without it. Watching this film with no disability reminds us that life can be so much more difficult, and dark, and lonely - at a fundamental level. Yet you see Elsa clasp her hands to her chest in glee at a plane ride she can only feel, and you know that disability is not a tragedy, not always. There is a human being in every person, no matter their physical or mental handicaps, who can enjoy new experiences of life, like a ride in a plane.  

    

Object #45 - Juice-cup - Starred Up (2014)

Dir. David Mackenzie 

Mackenzie's Starred Up is so much more than your average prison movie. The father-son relationship of Eric (Jack O'Connell), the son, and Neville (Ben Mendelsohn), the father, is the core of the film. Eric has 'starred up', meaning he's just upgraded, as it were, from juvenile prison to regular prison due to his age. He's imprisoned in the same block as his father, who shares a cell with a male lover, Ashley (David Avery). First things first, we can clearly see that the family isn't exactly what you'd call 'wholesome' by the standards of society. Neville has likely killed to end up in prison, although the crimes of many of the prisoners are never elaborated on, and his son has led a life of crime from a young age, following in his father's footsteps.

But, the two are estranged. To sum it up, Eric has 'daddy issues', as Neville has never been there to raise him, mainly because he's been in prison; and we later learn that when Neville was living with Eric, he was never affectionate - not very surprising. Neville is the key to understanding how Eric has become what he's become, however Eric shows signs of independence that he's fostered away from Neville. The very first scene of the film shows Eric MacGyvering simple objects to create a usable weapon on the guards. Eric joins Oliver's (Rupert Friend) group counsel sessions, and we see how his shell is softened, and he opens up to his fellow prisoners - see this clip, where out of session he shares a cup of tea with his counsel-members and they talk about their mothers; Eric replies "I haven't got one" - simple, but it gets the point across, and we see that it's been him either flying solo resenting his dad, or with his dad, resenting him even more.

An argument in the middle of the film takes place between the two as Neville finds Eric's 'fraternizing' with his fellow counsel members out of session to be wrong, and he thinks that as a son he should listen to his father. This is the prime sense of discordance between the two - Neville is incapable of seeing Eric as a human being independent of being his son - who he must protect, give advice to, but never empathise with. Eric craves that empathy.

ENTER: Our Object. In the scene (unfortunately it's not available on line), Eric goes to Neville's cell, finding that he isn't in. Ashley welcomes him in. Pause here. There is a little bit of tension as viewers here, not bad tension necessarily, but it's odd to us to see Eric, Neville's son, interacting with his father's male lover. Men sleeping with other men, and being dependent and affectionate with other men (as Ashley is with Neville) unfortunately still doesn't sit right with the societal standard of male masculinity, and that is a standard that is massively amplified in a prison scenario. By how affectionate and open we see Ashley being, it's likely that he is gay, and is comfortable with being affectionate (later in the scene he rubs Neville's knee to try and get him to empathise with Eric); however we know Neville is/was straight, as Eric is his son, so it's likely that he's 'situationally gay' - a common finding in prisons where due to a lack of women, regularly straight men become affectionate with each other, sometimes also being a dominance thing although it doesn't seem to be the case here.  

We then cut to when Neville returns to the cell, and we see that Eric has a cardboard juice-cup which he's been drinking from, as he's been talking with Ashley. Eric tells his dad that he's here to solve their issues and talk, which Ashley comments "Is a good thing". Ashley here is acting as a supportive partner to Neville, but also Eric, like a mother in a classic straight-family scenario. So in the scene that is his role, however as discussed, there is this tension of masculinity and unsaid judgement between father and son on this affection.   

Eric: "You just order me about and tell me to do stuff. You don't give a fuck about how I feel. [Neville nods him on during a pause] Well, that's it." 

 Neville can't grasp this. He thinks that someone must be threatening Eric, making him do something, as in his mind, why else would he come to his father? He becomes aggressive, ready to defend his son. Here is where Ashley puts his hand on Neville's knee, telling him that Eric is trying to tell him something. Neville, gently pushes his hand off, gestures with a point - clearly telling Ashley that he shouldn't do that in front of Eric. Neville is tied to the masculine father archetype - unfeeling, unaffectionate in front of his son, and didactic. Eric sighs, seeing that his attempt to tackle the main issue is failing, and leaves.

So why is that juice cup important? I think it's a genius bit of prop use, as later in the film, Eric meets with Dennis (Peter Ferdinando), the boss of this block, someone even higher up than his father. In their meeting what does Dennis give Eric? A: a cigarette. A cigarette vs. a cardboard juice-cup with a plastic straw, the kind of thing that you give a child. The respect that Eric deserves is conveyed in the object given to him (remember it's prison so objects carry more meaning and value here as gifts) by Dennis. So in a scene where the barriers between father and son are reinforced, we get the infantilizing juice-cup. I honestly don't have much more to say than I think it's a very subtle but very effective way of visual distinction between the regressive father-son relationship, and the more business-like nature of criminal relationships, still very much tied to that notion of masculinity. Also it gave me a chance to discuss this fantastic, fantastic film. Seek it out if you haven't already, if only for Mendelsohn's award-deserving performance, which naturally wouldn't be half as good without O'Connell's Eric.  

Object #44 - Marble Statues - Pride and Prejudice (2005)

Dir. Joe Wright

Pride and Prejudice, as a story, is about women in a particular time and place. One woman in particular, Elizabeth Bennet (Keira Knightley). Better men and women than I have analysed Jane Austen's original text, and better film critics have done the same to the myriad of adaptions that have taken place down the years. Probably the most highly acclaimed is the BBC's 1995 adaption starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, which is fantastic, but unfortunately overshadows this oft-forgotten classic. 

Like any classic, nearly every scene strikes you with a feeling of 'This is just fantastic!', and again, like most classics, this happens due to many factors coalescing into a truly satisfying whole. The scene which struck me the most, and is a great example of the particular merits of this film, comes approximately half-way through the film, where Elizabeth visits Darcy's (Matthew Macfadyen) estate. Despite their strong attraction to each other, Elizabeth rejected Darcy's earlier proposal to marry, finding him arrogant and presumptuous. It's strong stuff, as most women in this time would kill for the chance to be married to this upper-class, rich, attractive man (Side-note: The recent BBC War & Peace adaption similarly goes into this territory, and is well worth a watch). Elizabeth then, has a strong conviction to marrying on her terms, and is opposed to being treated as a piece of property, or marrying someone who she does not wholly love, as displayed earlier with Mr. Collins (Tom Hollander).    

In Darcy's estate, she finds a gallery of marble statues. It is here that she is wooed by Darcy, and he isn't even present. Gentle piano music accompanies the scene as Elizabeth appreciates the artistry of not only the building itself, but the beautifully-sculpted marble statues. This is a collection assembled by Darcy, and so by appreciating his tastes, she can appreciate him, and she does appreciate his choices. As she looks at these statues, we wonder if she shares the same thoughts as Darcy, and of course this is true, as she is clearly re-apprising Darcy, as how could a man so arrogant , find this art as beautiful as she does? 

It goes beyond this however, as one statue in particular catches her attention, Monti's Veiled Vestal Virgin. The Vestal Virgins were sacred women who guarded and kept burning the sacred flames of Rome, dedicating their lives and womanhood to this task, forsaking any relationships. A man such as Darcy, who can appreciate the subtext of this statue, as well as its aesthetic beauty, is clearly a man who understands the plight of women, their role in relation to men, and more than anything, their beauty beyond their sexual nature. They are therefore, not objects, not something 'to-be-married', but people in their own right. These are issues that Elizabeth has rebelled against and is clearly conflicted over - will she be a virgin all her life by passing over these men who wish to be her husband? Is her reasoning for doing this strong enough?

Yet here is a man who understands this, wants to marry her, and, as she muses over a bust of Darcy himself, is attractive. She responds to the housekeepers questions: Knowing him "only a little", and stating that yes, he is "handsome". But he is attractive not only in physical beauty, but in soul, and her knowing him a little, is clearly something she now wishes to remedy. She has fallen in love with him, and we know this only be her appreciation of these statues, and her short answers to the housekeepers' questions. Knightley deserves all the plaudits she gets for this scene alone, as it is all her, with some help from a little music, minimal dialogue, and of course, some beautifully sculpted statues. 

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.