Distant Relatives: Repulsion and Black Swan

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.  Since one of these films is still in theaters, I thought I'd mention that while certain plot elements are revealed I've done my best not to spoil any of the film's dramatic resolution.

Women well into their nervous breakdowns

We love to watch people go mad in the movies.  We watch people go mad because of fame and money.  We watch people go mad because of war or tragedy.  And we watch people go mad because of the relentless pursuit of perfection.  We're especially fascinated by beautiful people going mad.  "I hate to do this to a beautiful woman," said one of the cameramen of Catherine Deneuve on the set of Repulsion.  As if tormenting a plain looking person would be somewhat less repulsive.  We envy and idealize the beautiful.  What reason should they have to go mad, when life has dealt them such a winning hand?

But Natalie Portman's Nina and Catherine Deneuve's Carol do spiral down into madness.  Both are haunted by visions of walking nightmares.  Both see their reflections become broken and distorted.  And both are eventually brought to violence.  Each film contains moments of such fierce discomfort, we begin to expect (or fear) that the director is capable of showing us anything.  Now that is horror.  A scene of cuticle cutting in Repulsion suggests that Darren Aronofsky was probably influenced by that film's understanding of our empathy toward hangnail trauma.  But it's not fear of physical pain that's the catalyst for these beauties' insanty.

Would you fuck that girl?

They're all the same these bloody virgins, they're all teasers that's all.

Sex is dirty.  Sex is bad.  Both of these women have stilted sexuality in a world that demands they be sex objects.  Each film does a superb job of getting us into their heads, making us understand how they see sex.  As Carol lies in bed at night, hearing the animalistic moans and grunts being made by her sister and her sister's beau in the next room, we agree that they don't sound sexy at all.  They don't sound like something Carol would want to partake in.  They don't sound like something we would want to do.  For Nina, a subway encounter with a perverted old man tells us all we need to know about how sex appears before her: dirty, aggressive, a violation.  There's nothing present that suggests the comfort of love or even the enjoyment of pleasure.

For both of these women, being virginal is part of attaining or maintaining perfection.  Carol's pursuit of this ideal is subconscious.  She doesn't hope to achieve anything by accomplishing it, but being spoiled by a man would be akin to falling from grace.  For Nina, avoiding sex is part of her active pursuit of artistic perfection.  Her mother has pushed her in the direction of the pure innocent ballerina.  When company director Thomas Leroy insists that sexuality is her only path to perfection, it both contradicts and reinforces her attitudes toward sexuality and innocence.  After all, he demands she become sexual to embody the black swan, the dark character.  So sex may now be the goal, but it's still something sinister.

No way out

The activeness of Nina versus the passiveness of Carol is one of the major differences between these two films.  Yet in both cases it seemingly makes their downfall more inevitable.  Carol has no direction in life, no goals, no hobbies even.  Her descent into madness seems a natural progression of that emptiness.  For Nina, her pursuit of artistic triumph is so great, it can only lead where it eventually does - downward.  What both of these women do share is obsession, and that, however manifest, is the key to their fates.  The two women justify their darkness differently as well.  Black Swan plays with the doppleganger (echoing Swan Lake).  Nina, perhaps unable to accept any darkness within herself, creates mirror images of herself, onto whom she can project her inner evil.  Carol recedes within herself, becoming further and further the eternal victim.  She rationalizes her actions as necessary self-defense.  She has to.  By the end of her film, even the walls are attacking her.

In the over forty-five years between these two films, we notice that audiences have changed little.  Stories of beauty and obsession are still captivating.  Both films present us with a heroine who the picture empathizes with and sexualizes, almost becoming another one of the many gazing and lecherous men that surround them.  Like Nina, Black Swan the film is more active in its pursuit of our emotional distress.  The film is bombastic, swirling around, throwing a large amount of stimuli at is from all sides.  Repulsion is more passive like Carol, building slowly to a point where fantastic images truly shock.  Both methods work for their respective films, though the more modern one is maybe indicative of a time when the weight of film history and media saturation requires images be louder.  But however the times have changed, we still respond to beauty in peril.  We still are shocked at beauty embodying evil.  And like that camerman we feel terrible about it, but keep it in our gaze.

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Distant Relatives: Metropolis and District 9

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema.

Upstairs/Downstairs

They tell bird owners to avoid putting your new pet in one of those high hanging Tweety-bird cages.  See, if the bird spends most of his time positioned above you, he'll develop a sense of superiority and will be impossible to teach and train.  Just in case the overworld/underworld concept started to seem like a common and cliched metaphor, it doesn't hurt to remember that it's a fact of nature. Those who are above see themselves as greater than those who are below.  And if it transcends animal species here on Earth then why not throughout the universe?  Which is why it makes so much sense that the aliens of District 9 couldn't be allowed to live in their space ship towering high in the sky but had to be moved onto the ground and given the nickname "prawn" after an animal that mucks about far below us humans.  Metropolis classically uses the conceit and creates a reality where the workers live below the ground while the aristocracy lives in skyscrapers high above, and extends it to Biblical dimension, with workers being gobbled up in fantasy by the demon Moloch, rich people cavorting around overworld places called the "Eternal Gardens" and the central skyscraper the "New Tower of Babel."

Like much science fiction that comments on social justice issues, we're presented in both films with evil corporatedom.  In Metropolis, Joh Frederson is the founder and autocratic force behind the city.  In District 9 the wonderfully generically named Multinational United is the military company tasked with relocating the slum based aliens (because surely no government wants to do it).  In both cases, someone from deep within this corporate atmosphere will penetrate the "underworld" and come to an understanding, and in both cases it's a privileged son (or son-in-law).  At the front, Freder and Wikus van de Merwe seem like they couldn't be more different.  Frederson is a playboy and van de Merwe is a schlub (who hasn't even the decency to have been born into his luck) but both men are fated to bridge the gap between two very different worlds.  It's no surprise given their strength or weakness of personality that Freder ventures down into the unknown because of passion and cunning.  Van der Merwe goes because he's told.

Hero/Villain

Both District 9 and Metropolis are burdened with heroes that we, the audience, aren't likely to want to identify with.  Metropolis gets around this by making its protagonist display the heroism and moral fortitude that we'd all like to believe we'd have given his situation.  He acts out of love and then out of common decency.  Van der Merwe is a stooge and when he grows a conscience it's only in the most extreme of situations, when he is forced to literally live in the skin of the "prawns" and witness the inhumanity toward them.  Perhaps because in modern times we simply can't believe a man of business would become a moral champion without being dragged into it kicking or screaming.  Perhaps it's because audiences no longer identify with unapologetic heroes (even superheros these days are painted with serious amounts of pathos and self-doubt).  However, no one wants to identify with a racist.  District 9 director Blomkamp cleverly provides us with a tough road to tolerance, making his aliens disgusting, unsettling, and violent creatures.  Van der Merwe does eventually capture our sympathies because we see in him, not immediate heroism, but the capacity to learn and change.  Our standards for heroism have changed in eighty years, or just gotten more realistic.  And eventually, Van der Merwe too acts out of love.

The original bio-technology

 It's interesting that while both men are eventually compelled by the injustices they see, there is always that underlying compulsion to attain or re-attain the woman they love.  Whether that's selfishness or not - well neither film is exactly a lesson in Ayn Rand Objectivisim.   Then again, the lesson of Metropolis isn't exactly "Comrades Unite!" either, though the juxtaposition of the workers and aristocrats isn't far from the Soviet revolution silents of that same period.  Instead the message is "The mediator between the head and the hands must be the heart," a somewhat muddled and sentimental cry toward empathy all around.  Not so for District 9.  While our "good guy" situation may be murky, there are certainly bad guys and they must be defeated, through destruction if necessary.  In Metropolis the only villain set for destruction is the evil scientist Rotwang.  Even Frederson gets inexplicably redeemed.  In the time between the two films, one-dimensional heroes have made way for one-dimensional villains.  This makes it easier when the good guys win, if they win.  Unfortunately in that same amount of time, that conclusion has gotten much less inevitable.


Hope/Uncertainty

Metropolis ends on a pretty high note.  Foes are vanquished.  Love is founds.  Mutual respects are earned.  Societal breakdown is avoided.  At the end of District 9, what we're left with is hope.  We're presented with the possibility of an eventual happy ending.  When you think of the characters of District 9 in five or ten years, do you see a happy ending?  Chances are you haven't filled one in yet, and are hesitant to doing so.  This is because the filmmakers have us exactly where they want us.  For a movie influenced so strongly and apparently by the recent history of Apartheid in South Africa, it could never in good conscience end by the hands and the head meeting with the heart.  All is well.  Intolerance is defeated.  It has to present the struggle for equality as one with no end, just ongoing hope.  Curiously in this particularly pessimistic fable, the only real solution is the permanent separation of the human and alien class.  Metropolis certainly wasn't errant to suggest peaceful protest, but nearly a century later after war, corruption, holocaust and unending civil rights struggle, the idea may not play as well at the multiplex.  Even Fritz Lang eventually said "You cannot make a social-conscious picture in which you say that the intermediary between the hand and the brain is the heart. I mean, that's a fairy tale."

Metropolis is indeed a fairy tale.  That's one of the major differences between the two films and indicative of how the science fiction genre has evolved.  Metropolis is a big intentionally artificial stylized production with expressionist sets, wild dream sequences and eventually the Whore of Babylon running about.  It's not set in our reality but is a parable. District 9 is presented in a semi-documentary style, heavy on realism, going to lengths to redefine our history in a way we'll accept.  It thrives on its believability. It's worth noting that the high-concept of District 9 propelled it to surprise independent film success, although the backing Peter Jackson didn't hurt, nor did the action movie finale (which is why one must wonder if the film promotes just revolution as a social philosophy or a reason to get some explosions into the picture).  Metropolis's high concept on the other hand lead to political and critical controversy (enjoy this take down by dissenter H.G. Welles), highly edited, nearly incoherent versions.  Therein perhaps lies the main lesson in the comparison of these two films.  Anyone looking to stir up controversy today should tackle a subject other than the eternal, unresolvable struggle between the haves and have-nots.  Which may not necessarily be such a good sign of progress.  Because while we almost all now agree with the triumphantness of the statement, we've also accepted the inevitability of the premise.

Distant Relatives: The Entertainer and The Wrestler

Robert here, with my series Distant Relatives, where we look at two films, (one classic, one modern) related through a common theme and ask what their similarities and differences can tell us about the evolution of cinema. 

Angry Old Men 

As a society we have such a strange relationship with celebrities.  We admire them and we despise them.  We love when they fail, embarrassing humiliation and then we promise to celebrate their comeback.   For the person who has actually attained fame, there's a good chance that that fame will come to an end before they do.  At some point society won't have a place for them anymore.  Filmmakers seem naturally attracted to the stories of these people since their world, for good or bad, is eternally rooted in the hype of fame.

Tony Richardson's The Entertainer and Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler are two outside-of-Hollywood films with two very outside-of-Hollywood subjects.  Archie Rice of the somewhat-forgotten (or at least under-loved) The Entertainer is an old music hall performer, a song and dance man in a world where rock and roll is the only song and dance anyone seems to care about any more.  His audience is small and unenthusiastic.  Randy the Ram's audience is enthusiastic.  He's got small crowds cheering for him every week as he makes the rounds of the local underground wrestling scene.  The audience cheers for blood and bruises.  They cheer for Randy out of nostalgia for a time when Randy had full arenas packed just to see him entertain.

See the Resurrection

Two men trying desperately to hold onto a time when they mattered, growing old, living paycheck to paycheck or not even.  At the start Randy seems to have a better deal.  He's at least part of a community (though most of his fellow underground wrestlers are young guys trying to get where he once was), he has a haunt in the local strip club and a tenuous connection with fellow over-the-hill dancer Cassidy.  Living in a trailer park isn't preferred but he plays with the local kids and he has people who cheer for him.  Archie Rice does not.  And while he can often be found throwing one or many back among laughing cohorts, it's an attempt to recapture the good old days and numb the present ones.  They are not really his friends.  Both men are estranged from their families with particular attention payed to their relationships with their daughters.  Archie's is sympathetic but disappointed.  Randy's is jaded.  The father/daughter relationship is often plastered with "daddy's little girl" cliches.  Maybe we're meant to think that here, or maybe not.  Certainly we're given a glimpse into what could be.

Naturally there's a comeback opportunity that is not to be.  It seems unfair to breeze over the big chance for these men but it's a foregone conclusion that it can never be.  The entertainment industry demands change or death and these men, so desperate to matter again, aren't evolving but trying to pull their worlds back into the past with them.  Then again, the evolution that the world demands of these men is far from ideal.  Archie's best prospects are in Canada where he has an opportunity to run a hotel.  For Randy it's the deli counter of his local grocer, waiting on grumpy, particular seniors.  It's no surprise that Randy chooses to put his health at risk to fulfill his comeback, just as Archie stakes his financial future and risk of prison time on his.  The choice that these men have really isn't a choice at all.

We Had Faces Then

There is one woman whose shadow looms large over these two men.  She is the patron saint of washed up performers, or perhaps since we're talking in terms of relatives, their mother.  Norma Desmond is the original doomed performer though she's a villain; as time goes on, these characters get more and more tuned to our sympathies.  Desmond is such a villain that her film needs a hero.  Archie Rice isn't a villain but he's quite hurtful to those who love him.  He's given up trying.  Randy the Ram too screws up and often, but we get the sense that he's trying, he just can't overcome his own nature.

Randy's likability and the severity of his ultimate fate presents us with the biggest emotional blow of any of these characters.  Perhaps as time goes on, these kinds of stories must get more painful to make us take notice.  Or perhaps writer Robert Siegel has noticed how fatalistic celebrity culture has become.  All three films inhabited by these characters end with a death.  Perhaps it's the death of hype, or old Hollywood or British reign (as has been speculated in the case of The Entertainer).  Either way, the past dies.  And so does the roar of the crowd.