Object #76 - Steak Knife - The Lobster (2015)

Dir. Yorgos Lanthimos

Relationships are a continual process of give and take. The ideal image of a romantic relationship is one where both partners find balance between giving and taking. As we all know, relationships are tough, oftentimes requiring one partner to live with a situation they do not want to. In situations like this, there needs to be some leeway given to the beleaguered partner until equilibrium is restored, where both partners enjoy being together with little-to-no negative repercussions. But if the imbalance cannot be righted, then the relationship likely falls apart. 

Lanthimos' black-comedic satire of humankind's need for romantic relationships sharply aims its sights on this target - the balance. In the world of the The Lobster, newly single people take residence in a compound hotel. having 45 days to find from among them a suitable romantic partner. If, at the end of the 45 day period, they have not found a partner, then they are turned into an animal of their choice. The set-up is absurd, but is explored throughout, offering surprisingly insightful commentary on the importance society places on the concept of happy, coupled individuals. 

Our protagonist, everyman, David (Colin Farrell) gamely attempts, after a period of some reluctance, to cast himself into a relationship. In the monotone narration provided by an unseen woman (Rachel Weisz), we are informed that one of the women David is interested in (Angeliki Papoulia) is 'heartless', a fact he will soon learn. This coupling is set against the backdrop of the compound hotel, where assemblies, presentations, and dances all dispassionately extol the virtues of being coupled - from offering women the safety of not being sexually assaulted while walking alone, to simple things such as having assistance to do one's belt. 

In this cloying, desperate atmosphere, those who do manage to couple are paraded as shining examples to the others. Those that continually fail take place in frequent hunts into the forest, to capture 'Loners', those forbidden people who live alone outside the compound. These hunts offer the opportunity to extend one's stay another 24 hours per each successful capture of a 'Loner', in essence, extending one's life from animalhood, and presenting a tangible, negative alternative to escaping this rigid system - ostracisation, and being hunted just like the animal you'd eventually become anyway.

David and the Heartless Women (as she is credited) couple up after a brief process of evaluating their respective natures. In narration, we learn that David believes it harder to pretend to be heartless while being empathetic, than pretending to be empathetic while being heartless. This difficulty becomes exposed when the Heartless Women tests David, brutally murdering David's dog, the reincarnated form of his former human brother. 

In a telling scene, we see the woman wake David, who has established himself as a deep sleeper. She tells him what she has done, and Farrell brilliantly plays the breakdown of a man - a man who has placed himself in a false situation due to the pressure of society, a man forced to attempt coupling with a sociopath lest he be turned into a lobster, a man now having to pretend not to cry as he sees the bloody remains of his dead brother/dog. It doesn't last, as his tears confirm the woman's suspicions, that David is not truly heartless like she, and that he will now be punished for falsely attempting to escape the pressure of the compound.  

The coupling process with the Heartless Woman is a beautiful piece of satire that does however cut to the bone of incompatible relationships. David presents himself as something he isn't, and it costs him. Earlier, as the two get into a double-bed, he asks her if she wants the bedroom light on to continue reading. She says yes, and asks if this will be a problem for him, to which he says no, and that he's a heavy sleeper. Within the world of the film, it's a crucial test, as each is looking for any possible foible or quirk which will render the relationship incompatible in future. It's made clear that the threat of animal transfiguration is one which will hang over even those who successfully leave the compound as happy couples - if the relationship fails, back to the compound they go, and the process starts again.

It's a clear satire of a feeling everyone goes through in the beginnings of a relationship, as well as the consequences of falling out of one - the judgement of your peers, particularly those who remain coupled (adding insult to injury), and the knowledge that you'll have to go through the entire courtship process all over again. The bedside lamp acts then as a symbol of the give and take within a relationship that can end in dissolution, and in the case of David, even further extreme tests of character. 

David later find true love outside the compound with the Short-Sighted Woman (Rachel Weisz), set against the flipped world of the Loner forest. Here, relationships are forbidden by the leader (Lea Seydoux), as all the Loners are united only by being collectively alone. In a great moment, the Loners have a 'silent dance', each listening to music from their own headphones, united, but alone. Within this environment, the Short-Sighted Woman and David surreptitiously make signs of love to each other, and plan to escape into the real-world. This real-world is seen in visits as a dogmatic environment where couples thrive, but individuals are questioned and asked for certificate papers of coupling. Once again, a heightened satire of the importance society can place on couples rather than single people.

The Short-Sighted Woman is blinded by the Loner Leader within this city, via surgery, as punishment for the feelings she has with David. She attempts to hide it from him at first, but realises that there is no way to continue the relationship without him knowing, a mature move. David is appalled, but continues loving her, if a little more reluctantly than before she was blinded. It's clear from David's behaviour now that he feels there is an imbalance in the relationship. He has to adapt the secret signals of love to being non-visual, and must physically support her as they escape the forest.

This imbalance comes to a head in the final scene of the film, as they sit at a restaurant in the city. To re-balance the relationship he offers to blind himself. This is done matter-of-factly, both through a statement to her, and in his asking the waiter for a knife, a steak knife specifically. Was this statement a test? Was he only offering out of obligation, an extension of the same forced coupling present in the compound and their society as a whole? Did he expect her to turn him down, telling him not to be foolish and that they could co-exist as they are now?

Regardless, he goes to the bathroom, and attempts to stab himself in the eye. David hesitates, and the final long shot of the film rests on the Short-Sighted Woman, sitting alone in the restaurant booth, traffic going by outside, as she awaits his return. The length of the shot allows us to reflect on the extremity of the action David is attempting. It is a literal symbol of the lengths one must go to, against one's better nature, to remain in a balanced relationship. But it such extreme self-sacrifice worth it? Should one literally blind oneself to be compatible with one's partner? 

This theme of compatibility is expressed throughout the film, as couples refer to the similar features they share with their partners, such as the Limping Man's (Ben Wishaw) former wife also having a limp, and the Limping Man's forced nosebleeds as a technique to win the favour of the Nosebleed Woman (Jessica Barden), who suffers from routine nosebleeds. In the compound the new entrants are asked to present themselves with a 'distinctive feature', as if to present themselves only based on features which can compliment the same in another person. This extends outside the compound, as David happily states that he is also short-sighted in a discussion with the woman, as if it's further proof they should be together.

However even those in happy relationships, such as the Hotel Manager (Olivia Colman) and her husband (Garry Mountaine), who are presented, literally on-stage, as ideal partners, can fall apart easily when incompatibilities are pushed to their extremes. An earlier scene has the Loner Leader force the husband to shoot the Manager as proof of his admital that he can live alone while she cannot. The husband pulls the trigger, revealing the gun to be empty of bullets, a move which will now fracture that relationship, to the Loner Leader's visible pleasure. 

Even the posters for the film make reference to this theme, visually portraying the absence of a partner, and the incompatibility of one person without another. But within the final scene, it would appear that the mature move would be for David to return, and tell her that he loves her regardless of her blindness. But within this world of all-or-nothing love, would The Woman reject this, as it is not the absolute love of stabbing your own eyes out for your partner? Will their now-incompatible 'distinctive features' be seen as hallmarks of a relationship doomed to fail? What Lanthimos wishes to leave us with is that message, and all it carries with it - what is absolute love? How much give and take is actually possible within a relationship? Can we love that which isn't wholly like ourselves?   

Object #75 - Speargun - Friday the 13th Part III (1982)

Dir. Steve Miner

I went into Friday the 13th Part III knowing Jason Voorhees (Richard Baker) would finally don the iconic hockey mask. Naturally, I thought this would be the object in question to discuss, as it's one of those rare objects in film which is ubiquitous with Jason himself. Hockey masks were never the same once they became tied to the slasher villain, being now a cold, but unique mask covering the disfigured face of the brutal, child-minded killer. Unfortunately however, it's clear in Part III that the film crew didn't realise how iconic the reveal of Jason wearing the mask would go on to be.

The moment comes 60 minutes into a 95 minute film, after Jason has already escaped police capture and murdered his way through the inhabitants of Higgins Haven, as well as visiting young campers. The dweeby, practical joker Shelley (Larry Zerner), is the owner of the mask, who uses it as part of an underwater prank on friend Vera (Catherine Parks). She's relaxing next to the lake, and Shelley grabs her leg from under the murky water, revealing his masked face. Vera rebuffs him, telling him that she'd like him more if he wasn't such an idiot, with him responding that being an idiot is being better than a nobody. It's typical for this franchise, the woes of young campers who just want to sleep with each other while holidaying. 

Unfortunately for Shelley, he is soon after dispatched by Jason in the boathouse. We never see Jason take the mask, but nonetheless he appears, now masked, slowly walking out onto the pier. Vera's wading to recover Shelley's lost wallet, and here Jason appears, holding a speargun. Vera doesn't know him, and tells him to leave her alone, with Jason responding by dispassionately raising the gun, and firing the spear, straight down the camera. We cut to the spear impaling the shocked Vera in the eye, as she falls into the lake, slowly sinking. Jason drops the now empty speargun to the ground, turns, and...slowly walks away. 

I don't want to criticise Richard Baker's performance, as throughout the rest of the film he brings that beefy menace to Jason that would go on to be so iconic. However the angle of the shot, which follows Jason as he walks back to the boathouse does the masked killer no favours. His outfit, from this angle, alongside Baker's walk, do not paint a picture of an insane killer, but rather a middle-aged man nonchalantly walking through the park! I'm not being critical of the intent. I think the intent of portraying Jason as a cold, detached killer is admirable, as he's clearly unaffected by murdering Vera. But this nonchalant nature utterly dampens what would otherwise be an iconic moment of horror cinema.

Instead of cutting after the kill, or having Jason menacingly walk (as he does in later films), we have this lackadaisical saunter to the house, which does not inspire fear in any way. It's disappointing with the eyes of history that the iconic reveal of the now masked Jason flounders due to a poor performance choice, and unflattering camera angles. The kill itself is well done, as are most within the film, numbering high within the franchise for number of on-screen kills.

 The 3D nature of the film, which is lent into heavily throughout, is also present here as the spear is shot straight into the camera, making you imagine how theatre-goers at the time must have recoiled, or laughed at the campy effect. It's truly endemic of what Part III is going for - inventive kills, creepy killer, 3D fun. But the moment ends on a cheap feeling, and an unintentionally funny note with Jason's walk to the boathouse. For that reason, it doesn't feel right for me to select the mask as the object for the blog, at least from this film from the Friday the 13th franchise. Perhaps one of the later films (which I've yet to see) will really sell how the mask can be used to instil fear. For Part III, it has to be the speargun for encapsulating the main problem with an otherwise iconic scene. 

As not to end on a bum note, I just want to convey how brilliant the actual ending of Part III is, particularly as the trilogy-ender it was designed to be. Chris (Dana Kimmell), the final girl of the film, had dispatched Jason with an axe to the head. She pushes a canoe into the lake to escape from his body, collapsing from exhaustion. In what we learn to be a dream sequence, the film teases the audiences with potential closers to the film. Each previous Friday film has toyed with the image of the canoe on the lake, where the first film ended with the final girl being pulled under by the supernaturally alive, and rotten body of the young Jason.

 In Part III this shock-scare is teased as various noises scare Chris, as we expect something to rise from the lake. Instead, this expectation is subverted as Chris sees Jason, now resurrected for the second time in the window of the house. She panics, and Jason runs down onto the shore, where he disappears, thus making us think that Chris is simply hallucinating out of grief. Then, in a double-twist, the rotten corpse of Jason's mother (Marilyn Poucher), the killer of the first film, rises from the lake and drags Chris down. This twisted reprise of the first film is revealed to be part of a dream sequence, as Jason is shown to still be dead with an axe in his head, and Chris is taken away by the police, mind addled by grief and shock. The final shot of the film shows the still lake, indicating that the danger has indeed passed, and the trilogy has come to a close. 

I loved this entire sequence, as it is only enhanced by the knowledge from later films that Jason does often return, resurrected from the grave for one last shock. The presence of Jason's mother, and the nature of her surprise return, is a wonderful tip of the hat to the first film, and gives one last reminder that it is family dysfunction which is at the heart of Jason (and indeed Pamela's) compulsion to kill. This sort of inter-franchise playfulness goes a long way, beyond the normally inventive kills, to convey how much fun the filmmakers are having with the concept, and in this case, that fun is felt by the audience as well.    

Object #74 - Portrait - The Haunted Palace (1963)

Dir. Roger Corman

The Roger Corman AIM (American International Pictures) films, usually based on and named after a particular work of Edgar Allen Poe, are horror classics. However, they are odd classics as they don't serve much insightful commentary, as the likes of Get Out or Dawn of the Dead do, being rather vehicles for Vincent Price to chew fantastically-designed scenery. In your mind, where films reside as echoes and shadows after being viewed, the Corman films tend to be remembered for locations, sets, and Price's shenanigans within them, rather than the message they invoke, or even the scares you might have felt.

To a modern audience, there is little of actual fright to be had in viewing these films, as like Poe's stories, they deal less in making you jump, and more in making you despair. Corman adapts them into entertaining, enjoyable yarns, but interestingly in The Haunted Palace, despite being nominally named after a Poe poem, it is in fact H.P. Lovecraft's The Case of Charles Dexter Ward which is adapted. Lovecraft's horror deals more with creatures beyond human comprehension, often idolised by cults, offering sacrifices and women to mate with these unearthly creatures. In The Haunted Palace, it is Price's Joseph Curwen who acts as a necromancer or warlock, offering women from the local village to a caged monstrous demon, one which lies under his manner home. 

Curwen, who is burned alive for his actions by the villagers, promises a curse on the families of the villagers for generations to come. Now in the 19th century, Charles Dexter Ward (Vincent Price), the descendent of Curwen, returns with his wife (Debra Paget) to their inherited home, the manner/mansion of Curwen. We see that Curwen's curse has had an effect on the denizens of the town, as blind, disfigured children walk the streets, or are hidden in barred rooms. 

Within the dusty palace, above the mantle-place is a portrait of the original Joseph Curwen. The similarity of likeness between Curwen and Ward is commented upon by himself and his wife, as well as the villagers, who fear that his evil has returned. From his arrival, Ward appears to have a knowledge of the mansion, and slowly-but-surely it becomes apparent that Curwen is actually possessing Ward's body, in essence, returning to life to finish what he had began. Aiding Curwen are the similarly possessed descendants of his servants. 

The portrait itself is presented multiple times throughout the film, as Curwen's striking features seem to probe malevolence outwards. Here then, in a similar manner to Poe works such as The Fall of the House of Usher, also filmed by Corman starring Price, we see the past return and negatively influence the present. In The Haunted Palace, this literally occurs as Ward is possessed by his ancestor, and made to do horrific things. Such things include: attempting to rape Anne, Ward's wife; murdering the descendants of those villagers which burned him alive, often through the use of their own deformed children; and finally, a direct repetition of the past, as the possessed Ward offers Anne to the Elder God residing under the mansion. 

The horror of Lovecraft and Poe, where the past can never be forgotten, always returning to effect the present no matter how long it has lain dormant (see The Call of Cthulu where the eponymous Elder God sleeps awaiting a call to awake and wreak terror upon the Earth) is a strong streak of horror. I daresay in 2018 it is apparent that particular evils of the past, in particular fascism and xenophobia, have arisen anew, both within older generations and the younger. Therefore perhaps the creaky horror or The Haunted Palace isn't as outdated as it first appears.

Unfortunately however, unlike The Haunted Palace there is no easy fix. In the film, the solution of the past is required once again to break the hold of the past over the present. The villagers rally and burn the entire mansion down. In doing so, the portrait of Curwen is destroyed, allowing Ward's presence to return. In razing the physical remnants of the past, the past's negative influence is removed. If we apply the analogy to the rise of fascism, then unfortunately the repeated historical solution would be a world war against an organised fascist party - a road that is unbearable to even contemplate. 

The film appears to make-out that the portrait was what held the malignant spirit of Curwen, a concept best known to many in Voldermort's Horcruxes, which physically hold parts of a distorted soul. However the film crescendos with the reveal that Ward may not be free of Curwen's influence, as Price turns to the camera, his face pale with the possession of Curwen. Unfortunately, I think this undermines the message of the film, as it appears more as a playful tease to allow the viewing audience to leave the cinema (or wherever they view the film) with a knowing laugh. 

However, it may belie a darker message, one where the past cannot simply be burned away, and the evils spirits of the past have the ability to continue on. Here the allegory of that message is strengthened by Ward being an ancestor of that same evil, as the past overcomes a once normal, average man. In real-world terms, I'm afraid that this possessive power is not fantastical, as some people today fall into the same psychological traps that allowed evil to rise in a new, horrific way back in the 1930s and the 1940s. I mentioned Get Out earlier, which managed to act as a contemporary warning of the repeated horrors of the past, many of which don't seem to have left at all, only laying dormant, or transformed into 'new' versions of the same evil. The Haunted Palace addressed similar themes but in a much more direct, fantastical way. The seemingly outdated horror of the Corman era may not have fright, but it certainly still has a bite.      

Object #73 - Mirror - Eyes Without a Face (1960)

Dir. Georges Franju 

"The eyes are the window to the soul". 

In Eyes Without a Face, we are presented with the tale of Christiane (Edith Scob). She, a victim of a car-crash perpetrated by her father (Pierre Brasseur) has been left disfigured. Her father, a pioneering plastic surgeon specialising in skin grafting, has attempted to graft the face of a kidnapped local student onto his daughter. As we are introduced to Christiane, she is face-down in a pillow, depressed and in anguish, the surgery a failure, leaving her face as disfigured as it ever was. An assistant to her father, Louise (Alida Valli) attempts to comfort Christiane, and stresses that she should wear her mask. The mask, completely plain of features beyond a nose and lips, allows us to view Christiane's eyes. They have not been impacted by the crash, it is only through her eyes that we are able to see Christiane behind the mask. 

Eyes Without a Face is a cold film, lit starkly throughout, with the mansion home of Dr. Genessier a modernised Frankenstein's castle. A basement of caged stray dogs, a clinical surgical room, and large empty rooms, occupied only by Christiane, her father, and Louise. In the introductory scene to Christiane, she bemoans to her father that all the mirrors within the house have been removed or blacked-out. Christiane knows she has been left hideous, and catches reflections in the window of her true visage. Her father is established throughout as being driven by success, and controls his environment. Late in the film, Christiane again bemoans the fact that even on the road, her father has to be domineering, thereby causing the crash which has impacted her life. 

None of the main trio are innocent however. Dr. Genessier, flawed in personality, works with Louise to kidnap young students so that he may operate on them, removing their faces, leading one (Juliette Mayniel) to suicide as she realises her sorrowful state. Louise, who we learn is in debt to Dr. Genessier for fixing her face in the past, entraps young women - specifically targeting lonely, pretty students looking for accommodation. Christine herself goes along with the surgeries, and in a key scene, observes and strokes the face of the soon-to-be-victim. Each is flawed in different ways: the Dr., ego-driven and obsessive; Louise, free of empathy; and Christine, apathetic to the horror that befell her being forced onto other women. 

The controlling nature of Dr. Genessier is best expressed to me in his removal of the mirrors throughout the house. We see one, blacked out in the background of a scene, and in a later scene, Christiane sneaks into the surgery, viewing her face at last. By removing this self-reflective ability, the Dr. is denying her daughter the ability to come to terms with her disfigurement. It's clear from his behaviour that he feels ashamed, less so for the act of disfiguring his daughter, but rather in his inability to successfully graft a face which does not succumb to necrosis. His control of the mirrors is less the empathetic hiding of potential emotional distress from Christiane, but rather a means of disallowing Christiane from getting used to her 'new' disfigured face, as he is confident she will soon have a fixed one due to his work.

Christiane's mask therefore acts as a symbol of this patriarchal, familial oppression. Her eyes, remarkably expressive due to the superb acting of Edith Scob, inform everyone who witnesses her (including us as viewers) of the emotional pain she is suffering. We see in her eyes how she deals with her loss of innocence in allowing the morally horrific surgeries to take place, and indeed the plight she has been forced into by her father's actions, both by the crash, the effect on her face, and the ongoing surgeries. The accident has removed much from Christiane, but not the ability for empathy to be felt, as her eyes, the window to her soul, remain intact. 

Indeed, during the graphic scenes of surgery we see how her father cuts around the eyes of the victims. This practical act stands as another symbol of identity, as we are left to ponder how one's identity can be physically stolen by surgery, but is spiritually un-tampered by being leaving the eyes un-tampered. However, as we see in Christiane, this is false, as the eyes reflect the corruption of the soul by this cold, violent act. The victim we do see awakes with eyes peering from a bandaged face, as she panics and is hugely distressed, leading to her escape by leaping from a top-floor window, killing herself. Christiane's eyes are corrupted by her internal struggle, which reaches a climax as she frees the potential second victim (Béatrice Altariba), and rejects everything that has been done to her and the victims, by stabbing Louise in the neck, directly through the surgical scars of Louise's past. 

Throughout the film, there are parallels between Christiane and the stray dogs fostered by the Dr.. In one scene, Dr. Genessier laments how people abandon dogs after they grow up and become less cute, still requiring food, care, and attention. He jokes that the raising of the dog is the hardest part, and abandoning them half-way through their life seems a waste. Does this reflect his views on Christiane? Like a sunk-cost fallacy, he has raised his daughter, put a lot of work into the surgeries to fix her, stooped to moral lows - so he can't stop now. The Dr. operates on the dogs, wishing he had better stock to use. 

After the stabbing of Louise, Christiane frees the caged animals, as the dogs escape and maul her father to death, ironically leaving his face disfigured. Christiane leaves the mansion she herself had been caged in, with a dove on her shoulder, a symbol of innocence freed. She is escaping her past, her father, and now embraces a new life of moral purity. For now, she continues to wear the mask, allowing her eyes to express the innocent beauty that was inside her all along. Unlike the famous Phantom of the Opera, whose mask hid monstrous behaviour as well as physical disfigurement, Christiane's mask will hide physical disfigurement, but crucially not a spiritual one. A new spirit borne from the violent killing of Louise and Dr. Genessier, a new rebirth from violence; but unlike the violent car accident, she is this time free from the controlling influence of her father. The film becomes therefore a fantasy, a fairy tale of a young girl in a castle, escaping her controlling father, and becoming a new woman, free as a bird.  

In these terms, we see how the film bares similarity to older horror, such as that of the 19th century. The modern surgical context belies the fact that Louise and the Doctor act, vampire-like, to kidnap young girls to a castle, where their life is sacrificed to benefit others. Beauty is physically stolen to replace the monstrous, like young blood sustaining vampiric everlasting life. The surgery itself a Frankenstein process of imbuing dead tissue with life, here by physically grafting skin from one body to another. However, the process is temporary, as the graft fails and decays, leading to further violence having to be enacted. Life cannot be perverted in such a way. Christiane exemplified the difficulty, but correct response, to embrace the hallmarks of near-death, and while robbed of physical beauty, use it to enrich a stronger spiritual purity. Perverting it with violence, as her father does, on the other hand can only lead to failure, exemplified by the surgical failures, and his violent death by the fangs of his caged animals.

Such themes are presented and modernised by Eyes Without a Face, and go on to be echoed in films such as Frankenheimer's Seconds, or Almodovar's The Skin I Live In. In Seconds, the theme of stolen identity is rooted in ennui, rather than trauma; and even in action films like Woo's Face/Off we see how stolen identity can serve themes such as revenge, duty, and family. Like mirrors, the same subject matter can be reflected in different ways, be it via plot, direction, or even genre. Eyes Without a Face however, nearly 60 years after its release, endures as a classic of horror as it imbues what could have been a simple horror-shocker with deeper themes of identity, control, and morality. 

Object #72 - Island - L'Avventura (1960)

Dir. Michelangelo Antonioni 

"No one man is an island" - John Donne

L'Avventura is a film about absence. The plot, such that it is, centralises on the unexplained absence of Anna (Lea Massari). She, introduced in filmic terms as our protagonist, abandons this role less than 30 minutes into the film's duration. Anna, her lover Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), and friend Claudia (Monica Vitti) holiday on a yacht with other couples. Anna is impatient with sunbathing, with reading, with dilly-dallying in selecting a place to swim, and so she dives off the moving yacht, shortly followed by Sandro, doing his part as lover. Anna is a woman yearning for something, but she doesn't know what, a sentiment shared by nearly everyone on the trip.

What Antonioni does however, like Hitchcock with Psycho, is to subvert the expectations of character arc and plot, abandoning the most-driven character in the most literal way. As the holiday-goers explore a rocky, desolate island, Anna disappears. We, like them, are unaware of the specifics of this absence. Has she drowned? Is she hiding? Has she surreptitiously absconded? No, she has simply disappeared, and what Antonioni makes clear with the remainder of the film, is that the absence of something can be more interesting than its presence.

The absence is most strongly telegraphed, and felt, early in the film, on the island itself. Aldo Scavarda's cinematography, throughout the film but most importantly here, frames the living people against larger, often older objects like churches, towns, and rock-faces. On the island, Sandro and Claudia in particular are framed against the blank, monochromatic sea, oftentimes peppered with distant smaller, rocky islands. Each of us is an island, alone in our thoughts, within our bodies, and within our souls, and it is this feeling which is strongly evoked here. 

The relationship of Claudia and Sandro will grow from this absence, as each struggle with escaping their respective smothering feelings of ennui. This emotion is literalized by the absence of Anna, with her disappearance allowing Claudia and Sandro to explore the feelings they have for one another. Unexpectedly for some viewers at the time, it is not plot which is instigated by Anna's absence, but this budding relationship. However, the relationship which blooms is not truly passionate, being more personal outpourings of a craving for something more, an escape from ennui no matter the source, and no matter the person. 

After leaving the island, the two meet, and use the pretence of following up on a possible sighting of Anna to continue their relationship. They visit a village outside Noto, abandoned, and vacuous, with a church clearly not providing service/mass to any local inhabitants. Again, absence is externalised here with the village, and as a location, it provides the formation of Claudia and Sandro's relationship, as they take a break nearby, and make love. Critic and filmmaker Olivier Assayas notes that here the controlled, classical camerawork present in the majority of the film becomes absent; a static shot of the two leaving the village (and the shot) by reversing their car becomes a slow movement of the camera inwards, towards the church, almost as if the ghost of Anna follows them, and is manifest within a place as absent as she. The car itself echoes this as we only hear, not see, it leave.

This village, to me, bares similarity to the artworks of Giorgio de Chirico, themselves often dominated by empty, low-lit villages and ancient buildings. In his artwork, objects take on character by their associations and location, often separated by impossible shadows, and blank spaces. Just so, Claudia and Sandro, as the objects of interest of this film, are defined by their relationships in relation to absent spaces, absent people, and their absent souls. Later in the film, Sandro spends time in a more populated village, wishing to visit a locked museum. He sees the opening-times sign, which indicates that it should be open, but as he knocks the door, he hears an echo, and remarks on the emptiness. He asks a local, remarking that this is a poor welcome for tourists. The local, friendly at first, suggest that they as a village do not want the presence of tourists. 

Sandro, rebuffed, walks away and sees an unfinished ink-drawing of a local building. Dangling his keys, he absentmindedly but purposefully knocks the ink over, staining the paper. The local artist, previously unseen by Sandro comes over and has a brief conflict with him, to which Sandro condescendingly insults his age. To me, this is one of the most telling moments of the film. No matter how much we are made to empathise with the ennui of both Claudia and Sandro, the dominating absence of care that they are steeped in will always be expressed this way. Here, the absent-minded ruining of a half-finished drawing, and broadly, in their lack of care for the absence of Anna. Claudia is certainly more torn-up by the fast feelings she has for Sandro, but even she is happy to ignore their search for Anna, as she and Sandro enjoy each other in her stead. 

The film climaxes with the aftermath of Claudia finding Sandro post-coitus with an attractive woman (Dorothy de Poliolo) met at a party. Sandro again, like a drowning man in a rough sea, lashes out for instant gratification. Claudia, her trust in Sandro broken, runs away, viewing the sunrise. Sandro, instantly remorseful, follows her, sits at a bench, and cries in self-pity. Claudia however, places her hand on the back of his head, comforting him, as the film ends with the two of them framed against the sunrise of a new dawn, a new opportunity to find their souls. This shot parallels an earlier shot from the island, as Claudia witnessed the sunrise from a hut on the island. There, she was alone, entrenched in the her own absence of meaning, and the sudden absence of Anna; whereas now, she and Sandro view the sunrise together, in a populated town. They are now framed with the sea, rather than against it, as they have joined Anna in finding some deeper meaning beyond passionless existence.

Earlier in the film, the two visited a church rooftop. Here, as a Nun leaves them, as always, alone, they discuss their goals in life. Sandro asks Claudia to marry him, to which she quite rightly says no. She accidentally pulls a rope, ringing one of the church bells, and the two ring the bells to hear another church respond to the call. To me, this encapsulates the theme of the film, and the church bells could easily be the chosen-object for this post. The ringing of the church bell is welcomed by another unseen human, who rings their church bell in response. This can only be done apart. Each of us in our own islands, ringing bells in the hopes that out of the silence, someone else rings back and says: "Don't worry, I'm here". 

But to claw your way out of ennui, as expressed by the film's ending, it to go beyond a simple connection. We see superficial connections throughout: the early beginnings of Claudia and Sandro; Claudia's friend Giulia (Dominique Blanchar), who flirts and kisses a teenage Prince (Giovanni Petrucci) in front of her husband; the men leering at Claudia; and of course, with Sandro and the prostitute. Despite their relationship literally being borne from absence, Claudia and Sandro can now form something new, something which has already shown struggle, but it is from such absence that they will thrive and live with renewed passion. No one man is an island, and that is the core of L'Avventura.    

Object #70 + #71 - Clam Shells / Dagger - Cleopatra (1934) / Macbeth (2015)

Dir. Cecil B. DeMille / Justin Kurzel

Heavy-handedness is easy, subtlety is difficult. True, or not? 

Take one look at Cecil B. DeMille's Cleopatra, marvel at the set construction, costuming, and prop work and it becomes very apparent that something so heavy-handed must have taken a lot of work. DeMille succeeds at bringing to the screen sumptuous visuals, Hollywood constructions packed to the brim with props and extras, and overwrought acting of overwrought scripts. This is his style, and Cleopatra is no different. It's enjoyable on a surface level way, but it's as hollow as the sets themselves. 

In this gaudy sea, moments of subtlety can be found. One excellent bit of staging has Cleopatra (Claudette Colbert) lazing on a chaise lounge, with her lover, Marc Antony (Henry Wilcoxon) at her side, sprawled across the stone steps. DeMille covers the two with the strings of a harp, which a servant plays, his hand almost caressing Cleopatra's chest. We never see Antony and Cleopatra make love, but this is the closest we get, with a subtlety so non-evident everywhere else. 

The initial seduction of Antony for example, is precluded by a scene in which he expresses his thoughts on women aloud with his compatriots, to the tune of "Women, what are they good for?". To anyone with a shred of history education, or even someone who's heard the term Antony & Cleopatra, it's so obvious that this is being ironic for its own sake. In the literal next scene, Antony meets with Cleopatra on her exotic, extravagant barge, where in no short order, he is seduced by her charms. 

How does Cleopatra do this? She presents the wealth of Egypt, by sending a net overboard, and trawling up clams full of peals. Ah, but it isn't that simple. In the net are scantily dressed women, who present the clams to the two. They open the clam shells wide, as Cleopatra monologues about the 'treasure' of the Nile which can be his...do you get it? She throws the pearls to the crowd, who rush to get the treasure, and bids him to do the same, making him complicit in the fun to be had in her land, flaunting the wealth of Egypt, both literally, and metaphorically in her own sexuality. Honestly, it's not terrible as far as visual metaphors go (it's not exactly great either), but more girls show up, dressed in animal furs, play-clawing at the crowd, before eventually performing a dance where they jump through flaming hoops. The camera, just as complicit pans back from this dance over the large rowing oars of her barge, letting the audience enjoy the money shot. The next scene is the harp scene I described above, confirming that they made love.

Note the jewellery....

I'm not actually doing DeMille's heavy-handedness justice but all you need to do is hear the delivery, particularly among the Romans, to realise that this is almost a farce, elevated to the heights of Hollywood by nothing but copious amounts of money. Take the scene, famous from Shakespeare, where Julius Caesar (Warren Williams) is betrayed and murdered by his senators, including, of course, Brutus (Arthur Hohl). Their earlier conspiring has a Brutus who plays it with such laughable dourness that it's almost a comedy. The murder is just as bad, as the famous line is of course quoted, in a production not fit to carry it. 

So to reiterate we have this scene, an almost parody of Caesar's murder, followed by a brief scene of Cleopatra's reaction to the news, and then Marc Antony's wooden dialogue about how he really doesn't like women, like at all, he swears. Honestly he might as well say 'Girls are icky', it'd have the same value. Then - barge seduction, sultry women, pearls, wealth, power. It's so truncated, and devoid of actual human emotion that it's like seeing a kids picture book on screen, where the text is elementary-level, but the pictures have been so fine tuned that you can gawp guilt-free. The clam-shells opening to present Antony with sexual gratification is about as subtle as you can get for films of this time with regards to sex (and actually relatively restrained for a pre-code film), but it's still the type of subtlety that's centre-screen, and supported by scantily dressed women, to really hammer home the message. 

Now since we've mentioned Shakespeare, let's take a look at an adaption that actually manages to not only bring it to the screen with visual aplomb, but with textual and subtextual depth, wringing new interpretations from a piece of literature so well-rung by not only literary critics, stage adaptions, but also esteemed filmmakers such as Polanski, Kurosawa, and Welles. No mean feat, and it puts DeMille to shame. Now of course, DeMille only wanted to make the 'Hollywood' version of a famous 'work' of history - that of Cleopatra. Kurzel's purpose was to spin the classic Scottish play in a more intimate way, one in which film can succeed where stage cannot. 

His purpose is clear from the off, as we do not open on the three witches, but on Macbeth (Michael Fassbender), and his wife (Marion Cotillard) laying to rest their young boy. This is a fundamental focus for the rest of the film, and this loss haunts the two of them, and haunts your thoughts as a viewer, making you reappraise the text you've likely heard many a-time in the past. Children are found throughout the film, reminding Macbeth in particular of his loss and grief - take for example a shot of children playing after he exits the tent after his 'discovery' of the murdered King Duncan (David Thewlis), which frames his action against the children's innocence, and the innocence he has lost, replaced in both he and Lady Macbeth's lives with ambition for power. Later in the film he, in a fit of paranoia, has the wife and children of Macduff (Sean Harris) hunted down through a forest, as she screams that they are innocent of any crime. He uses them to send a message, tying them to posts outside the castle, shouting of the prophecy that no man born of a woman can kill him, and burning them alive as warning. 

Some, like Macduff's children, Banquo's (Paddy Considine) boy, and Malcolm (Jack Reynor), the son of King Duncan and heir to the throne, are apparent in the original text, but Kurzel chooses to place emphasis on each of these in detail, as well as including Macbeth's dead child to open. Of particular note is a recurring emphasis on a young solider (Scot Greenan) who perishes in the opening battle of the film. Greenan's distinctive features, and muddied warpaint ensure that he's well-remembered from the off, as we see Macbeth strap the boy's sword to his hand, haul him to his feet during the battle, and finally place rocks over the eyes of his corpse, just as he did to his son minutes earlier in the film, linking the two. This boy is a spectre which haunts Macbeth throughout the film, another uniqueness to this film, rather than the classic spectral haunting of Banquo at the feast, which is also retained. 

The dagger which Macbeth sees before him, presented as a mental apparition in the Polanski version and in numerous RSC adaptions, normally hangs in the air, leading him to Duncan so that he may commit the foul deed. Here however, the boy appears holding the dagger, and so the dagger appearing before Macbeth is intertwined with the haunting image of the boy who he failed to save, which naturally is a surrogate for his own child. By using this young solider, rather than the image of his own child, there is a subtle subtext of tangible guilt which is associated with the horrific battles against traitors of the land. Both Fassbender and Kurzel are explicit in their presentation of Macbeth as a more modern figure, spurred to greedy ambition by witches which may be apparitions of PTSD and grief - and so the 'scorpions' which fill Macbeth's mind are rooted in our modern interpretations of mental illness.  

    

One of the highlights of this adaption is the stark re-interpretation of the "Out damned spot!" soliloquy of Lady Macbeth. It removes the plot-based purpose of the classic text, where her sleepwalking speech makes evident both her and Macbeth's guilt in Duncan's murder to staff of the castle. Instead, it has Lady Macbeth, in a stark white gown, present her guilt just off-camera, in a bare church, in a village abandoned due to her husbands poor running of the land. The church, warmly lit for Lady Macbeth's first 'solo' scene earlier in the film, already creates as stark a visual contrast as possible in its current condition. The whispering delivery of Cotillard contrasts to the passion-filled performances which litter your mind from past portrayals, making this unique to Cotillard and unique in the way only a film close-up can do.

The soliloquy ends by revealing Lady Macbeth's young child, absent-mindedly playing in front of her, causing you to reappraise past text, as not a sleepwalking admission of guilt, but one directed at the child whom she feels she has let down, and who stands in her mind as a bastion of innocence. As a mother, this is how Lady Macbeth's guilt is manifest, whereas Macbeth's is heavy with the young soldier of war. She commands: "Wash your hands. Put on your nightgown. Look not so pale. To bed, to bed. (...) Come, come, give me your hand! What's done cannot be undone." 

Previously, commands to herself, to wash the daggers and the bloodstained guilt from her hands, but now, this meaning is paired with a tearful, heartfelt urge for the normalcy of the mother/child relationship. It's heartbreaking, and Cotillard herself in behind-the-scene interviews calls this addition of Kurzel's 'genius', as it solidified how she should perform the scene, not to herself in madness, but out of grief for her child. It's telling that Kurzel's seemingly bold-for-boldness' sake addition of a fourth witch is not done lightly, as it takes the form of a child, again intertwining the lost child as central to the witches, themselves the originators and spur to both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth's mad urge for power. Indeed, following the Damned Spot scene, Lady Macbeth witnesses the witches, and they hold in their hand a baby, almost suggesting that in her mind, she willingly dies to be reunited with innocence again, in the shape of a young child. 

Compare this to Cleopatra, who near the end of her film proclaims: "I am no longer a Queen, I am a woman". It's borderline insulting, that a film centred around Cleopatra is dominated by Roman politicking, at the expense of rich scenes featuring Cleopatra herself, rather than in addition to. For a film of her namesake, she is underserved, always subservient in performance with male-dominated scenes. She becomes "a woman" and nothing else, in dialogue as leaden as the message it promotes - gone is the not-so-subtle seduction, and in its place a domesticated woman, no longer a queen, only a wife, to a failure of an emperor. I'm cheating somewhat as Lady Macbeth is one of the greatest female characters in literature, but in comparison her royalty and motherhood are heavily intertwined here, creating subtleties of performance and interpretation found nowhere in the work of DeMille, and nowhere else in other Macbeth adaptions. We can only hope that Cleopatra gets not only the script she deserves, but one which can give that performer a bevy of subtlety, which embraces her royalty and sex, rather than denounce both. 

Object #69 - Knickerbocker Glory - Mona Lisa (1986)

Dir. Neil Jordan 

Like a striptease, Mona Lisa becomes more and more debauch as it goes. Despite opening with our protagonist, George (Bob Hoskins) having a midday domestic with his wife and child in a London suburb, the seedy life-of-crime George falls back into, following his prison release, remains at arm's length. He's tasked with ferrying high-class prostitute, Simone (Cathy Tyson) from place to place, from fancy hotels, to secluded estates. 

The opener immediately characterises George, as he, fresh from prison, attempts to mend a clearly fraught relationship with his wife (Pauline Melville), flowers in hand. Well, in fact, his main purpose seems more to be reuniting with his daughter, Jeannie (Zoe Nathenson). We can assume he's been in prison for a while, as she's now a teenager, not the child he once knew (if indeed he knew her at all pre-prison). He desperately tries to halt any calling of his wife, clinging to a brief moment with Jeannie. When it all goes tits up, and descends into a shouting match - wife telling him to leave, Jeannie begging her Mum to let him speak - George reacts like you'd expect, throwing the flowers at the door, tipping bins over, and grappling with passers-by who attempt to get him to leave. George is a thuggish man, like many we've seen before, unable to vent his emotions in any other way than violence. But, and this is the crucial part, he has a heart - Jeannie. 

Following this outburst of violence at the open, the film tones down into a drama presenting crime, rather than a crime-drama. The prostitution of Simone is done in upper-class environments, as classy a way to do prostitution as there can be, and behind closed doors. She goes about it business-like, with George being the one out of place, with his geezer attitude and mismatching clothes. Even when Simone gives him money for fancier clothes, he wastes it on gaudy, low-rent gangster threads. A great moment occurs where she avoids his escorting her out of the hotel, distancing herself from his apparent lower-classness and crime background, jokingly stating that he might as well have a gold necklace, to which he pulls one out from under his shirt. They're an odd couple. He offhandedly throws racist jokes at her, expecting her to go along, but again, crucially, when she doesn't, he falls back on it being his nature, and the way he was raised, a damn sight better than say calling her a bitch or some other worse response.

The two fall into what could be called love. They have a connection, in that odd-couple way, where their bickering and poles-apart natures (in background, gender, skin colour, and culture) are what makes them a great fit. So much so, that George agrees, against his better nature, to help Simone track down another prostitute friend of hers, Cathy (Kate Hardie). Cathy, when Simone last saw her, was being abused by her pimp (Clarke Peters), and despite Simone manging to escape him and move higher up the crime ladder, Cathy's fate hangs over her. 

Here, we descend into the more debauch nature of the London criminal world. George uses old contacts to find any prostitute with the name Cathy who matches his description. He finds himself in really seedy, crappy backroom bars where drugged up women dance naked to disinterested punters. The women gaze, dead-eyed at the tatty environments they find themselves. Upstairs rooms lead off from a bare hallway, the building used for one purpose, cheap sex. In one of these rooms he finds a prostitute called Cathy, but she isn't blonde, and isn't who he's looking for. 

May (Sammi Davis), as we later find out her true name, is fifteen years old. Even the contact of George, a bouncer for bars like this, remarks "I didn't know you liked 'em that young, George.". It's uncomfortable ground, and the air of abuse, both physical and sexual, is heavy. May has a black eye from her pimp, who we discover is the same pimp from Simone's past, and she pleads with George to tell him that she was 'good'. She's out of it, due in part to her age, with Davis fantastically conveying this young girl who's used to this abuse, knowing no better. 

As the film goes on, we learn that George's boss (Michael Caine) has a hand in the pimp ring. We dive in more depth to street prostitution and street pimps. When introduced to the real Cathy, she is naked, pushed up against a one-way window by an old man, likely a politician, herself far too young, and on the table lie needles, likely heroin. The window into the seedy crime world is even opened on Simone, as we see her revealed at first in polaroids, then in a porno which George tracks down, and finally in fetish-wear, handcuffed, pleasing a client. 

The message of the film, that the commodifying and abuse of women and young girls is a societal problem oft-overlooked, is best encapsulated when George attempts to gather information from May. He sees her on the street after their first meeting, midday, and attempts to talk to her again. She refuses to answer his questions, trying to hail down customers. George strong-arms her, again using aggression as his primary method of solving situations. She goes along with him on the condition that he pays her for time she could be spent with clients. 

They enter a standard London cafe, George gripping her arm lightly. He orders a tea for himself, and when asked, May orders a Knickerbocker Glory ice-cream. They sit, as George awkwardly attempts to start a conversation. He asks her if she likes ice-cream, to which May responds that it's all she can eat anymore. George is put off, the ramifications of the life of abuse May and prostitutes like her go through flash across Hoskins' face, masterfully understated acting, where we understand his thoughts without having access to them. May can't eat solid foods due to the amount of drugs she's taken, or been forced to take. After he gains information from her, including her real name, she exclaims "Oh, my ice cream!". George goes over to the counter, then brings it to the table, and as he returns, he swears, hastily dropping the tea and ice-cream on a table. 

The camera cuts outside to May getting in a car with a customer, as George crosses the road, shouting after her "What about your ice-cream?". It's a surprising moment, and one that really struck me, despite the later scenes of worse circumstance, as this one truly sold the child-like aspect of the prostitutes. May is excited for ice-cream, like a child younger than her years, as if she hasn't aged mentally at all due to being forced, for how long we don't know (and don't really want to know), to please strangers. 

It's the suddenness that really gets me. May goes from happily exclaiming for ice-cream, to soliciting a random car-bound stranger for sex in barely a minute. From child to under-the-thumb, wilful embrace of sexual abuse. She's so locked into this life that time off to briefly enjoy child-like pleasure, is ditched to pleasure someone else, to keep her pimp happy, and to earn her way. George we know would have paid, it's in his character, a funny thing really as earlier in the film, waiting for Simone, he tips a tip-jar of coins into his pocket. He's the type of guy to do that, but he not enough of a crook to disenfranchise what he sees as a child, in poor circumstances. 

Later in the film, [SPOILER WARNING] it's revealed that the reason Simone wanted to find Cathy was that they were in love. George was a means to and end, his and Simone's chemistry used for her to get her true love out of trouble. George, being not only a man of his time, but also a man who so clearly needs some connection to anchor him and to escape from the drudgery of his criminal life, is enraged that he's been duped. We see it in Hoskins' face as the truth becomes clear. The pier scene where he confronts Simone about his feelings sell not only in words, but in wordless expression the rage at being made a fool of, being made a fool of by a woman, being made a fool of by a black woman, having his emotions twisted by a (in his own words) 'dyke', emotions twisted by someone who he thought he had a connection with. 

Hoskins and Tyson are electric throughout the film, and this is the climax of their relationship, as it's torn apart. We empathise with both, and indeed, sympathise with both - he's estranged from his wife and daughter, she's unable to be with and to care for the woman she loves, a gem in the world of shit that she and the trapped women of London find themselves. He hates and loves her, and his journey into the seedy sex rings of London has matured him to the plight of women in the city, and yet a betrayal is a betrayal so it still hurts. We end the film with him finding connection with a young girl untainted by the seedy world of crime, Jeannie, his daughter, who he can bond with on a deeper level thanks to the journey he went through in Mona Lisa, and find a connection which can repair the damage that the world left on him.