Category Archives: Rewind

Rewind

Best of the Decade: Darren Aronofsky’s ‘Black Swan’ (2010)

 What gave Black Swan its most enduring legacy (aside from the seemingly endless font of memes it inspired that year) was its unique twist on the psychological thriller.  A nod to the Michael Powell-Emeric Pressburger classic, The Red Shoes, Darren Aronofsky’s film tells the story of Nina Sayres, a corps dancer who dreams of becoming a prima ballerina.  As Nina, Natalie Portman skillfully displayed a range of emotions not before seen in previous roles: vacillating between fear and elation, anger and obsession — all in the time it takes to flutter one’s imaginary wings.  What results is a mesmerizing psychological breakdown that has Nina sacrificing the most important thing of all: herself.

Read my write-up for The Resident Artist here.

Watch now | See the full list on Letterboxd

Images courtesy of Fox Searchlight Pictures.

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Rewind

Best of the Decade: Mark Romanek’s ‘Never Let Me Go’ (2010)

In great contrast to fellow best-of entrant Inception and others of its ilk released the same year, Mark Romanek’s Never Let Me Go, his adaptation of Kazuo Ishiguro’s eponymous novel, subverts the usual expectations of a science-fiction narrative, taking the dystopian plot from its usual dreamscape futurama and placing it into a time more familiar to us (in the book, early- to mid-1990s; the film, late-1980s to early-1990s).  The alternate universe in question is a world where disease and illness have decreased and life expectancy has increased, all made possible through advances in clone technology. Here, clones are groomed to donate their vital organs once they reach a certain age — until, ultimately, they achieve “completion.” 

As the clones themselves, the film introduced then still-rising stars Carey Mulligan and Andrew Garfield, with beautifully-pitched performances as Cathy H and Tommy, two clones who have known and loved one another since childhood.  Alongside them, the already well-established Keira Knightley also delivers a memorable, performance as their morally ambiguous childhood friend, Ruth, who reunites them later on in life.  With Alex Garland’s adapted screenplay, combined with Alex Kimmel’s artful cinematography, all under Romanek’s sensitive direction, Never Let Me Go deftly straddles the thematic elements Ishiguro put into play in the original source material: mainly, the ethics of cloning technology — as well as the intricacies of humanity, and the tenuous grasp we humans have at understanding it.

 Watch Now | See the full list on Letterboxd

Images courtesy of Fox Searchlight Pictures and imdb.com.

This post contains affiliate links, and as a result, I may receive a commission for purchases made through them.  Posts are not sponsored and any brand partnerships in future will always be disclosed.

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Best of the Decade: David Fincher’s ‘The Social Network’ (2010)

“Creation myths need a devil.”

At the risk of subsequently praising nearly every film released that year (and sounding like a cheap imitation of a sommelier), it must be said that, yes, 2010 was a very good year for film.  Kicking off the decade in a major way was none other than David Fincher’s The Social Network (2010).  The film marked the first collaboration between Fincher and another titan of screen and stage, writer Aaron Sorkin, merging the former’s unique visual storytelling with the latter’s signature rapid-fire dialogue.  

The result is akin to what many of my fellow Letterboxd mates would term as a “chef’s kiss” of a film.  Along with the excellent direction and writing are the dynamic cinematography by Jeff Cronenweth, expert editing by both Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall, and remarkable performances by the young, star-studded cast; each element of Social Network — visually, sonically, and otherwise — all perfectly coalescing into one, albeit fast-paced, cohesive unit.         

Watch Now | See the Full List on Letterboxd

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The Great Eleven O’Clock Number

As I previously wrote:

“..none [of the songs] get us there quite like its eleven o’clock number, “Audition (The Fools Who Dream)” does. It is La La Land’s most character-driven piece and undeniably its best song (despite being passed over by “City of Stars” for Best Song nominee at that year’s Oscars).” 

Featuring wonderfully-penned lyrics by Dear Evan Hansen and The Greatest Showman hitmakers Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, “Audition (The Fools Who Dream)” called to mind another song from yet another movie-musical: that of Cabaret’s eponymously-titled show-ender, penned in a similar vein by lyricist Fred Ebb, and performed by the inimitable Liza Minelli.

As noted in this post from Danny Ashkenazi’s Notes from a Composer blog, the similarities here are pretty obvious to savvy movie-musical fans, but perhaps subtler to more casual viewers of the genre. Both songs speak of living without regret, with each protagonist speaking of an inspirational, larger-than-life figure in their lives; Emma Stone’s Mia talks of a Francophile aunt, while Minelli’s Sally Bowles sings about her friend Elsie. Other similarities abound, particularly as each character begins to sing of their respective inspirations’ demises. Watching La La Land, I was tickled to hear the similarity of the lyric “She lived in her liquor/and died with a flicker” to Cabaret’s “The day she died the neighbors came to snicker/Well, that’s what comes with too much pills and liquor”.

It’s yet another great example of director Damien Chazelle’s homage to musical theatre at work.

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The Pulchritude of Fosse, Revisited: A Look at Those Famous Jazz Hands—Step-by-Step, Inch-by-Inch, Frame-by-Intoxicating-Frame

According to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, the word pulchritude (one of my personal favorites) is defined simply as ‘physical comeliness’ — and if there is anything that fits that description, it’s director-choreographer-auteur Bob Fosse and his distinctive choreography.  Known now for its emphasis on rounded shoulders and isolated movements, Fosse’s choreography was inspired by what he felt were his own physical shortcomings, which he later spotlighted in his always alluring and always provocative signature style.  Little did he know that as a result, this slight re-contextualization of his supposed imperfections would not only go on to challenge notions of sexuality, conformity, and art but also inspire a bevy of devotees decades later.

In an essay which appeared in the accompanying booklet for the Criterion Collection edition of Fosse’s penultimate and most ambitious work, All That Jazz (1979), New Yorker writer and critic Hilton Als wrote the following:

In any case, Fosse’s imitators are legion; that’s what happens when you give your life to learning something about your own ultimately unexplainable genius.  It must have seemed as if no time had passed, as he lay dying, between that moment and being a boy in Chicago, a born choreographer who worked so hard to articulate, through all those bodies that passed before his discerning, worried eyes, what a shrug meant, what a slide meant, how to contract and then extend in a world that was constantly contracting and extending past the point — seemingly — of human endurance, all the while holding up your gloved hands, those famous Fosse hands, ten digits that, more often than not, the choreographer made look like the instruments that committed original sin, hands that were always grasping for something more dangerous than love, even though there is nothing more dangerous than love, maybe an attitude, one that said, “I don’t care, fuck it.”

It is this exact talent for turning expectations on their head which Fosse later extended into his film-making. From his artful displays of a group of flirtatious taxi dancers in his directorial debut, Sweet Charity (1969); to seemingly cheery vaudevillian numbers satirizing the Nazi regime’s rise to power in Cabaret (1972)’s Weimar-era Berlin; culminating in the harrowing image of a body bag zipped up to Ethel Merman’s rendition of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” in All That Jazz — Fosse found how to make the camera dance, in ways that still very much resonate today.  

In fact, one can still see remnants of his influence in modern pop culture — from musical theatre (1996’s Rent, the 2002 Oscar-winning film version of Chicago) to film (2000’s Center Stage, 2006’s Marie Antoinette) to even the realms of pop music (Beyoncé, Christine and the Queens), many are still paying their homage to the late director-choreographer, who died suddenly in 1987.  Most recently, Fosse’s legacy has continued on with the Lin-Manuel Miranda-produced FX limited series Fosse/Verdon, the season finale of which aired just this week.  Centered around Fosse and his wife and muse, dancer-actress Gwen Verdon and stars Academy Award-winner Sam Rockwell and Academy Award-nominee Michelle Williams as Fosse and Verdon, respectively, the show chronicles the couple over the course of their rocky-but-passionate fifty-year marriage.  

I haven’t gotten to check out the show during its original airing, so I’ll definitely be spending the next couple of weeks binging it — and then re-visiting Fosse again with the clips below!  Like Roy Scheider famously said in All That Jazz: “It’s Showtime, folks.”

“Who’s Got the Pain?” (ft. Gwen Verdon), Damn Yankees (1958)

“Big Spender”, Sweet Charity (1969)

“Mein Herr”, Cabaret (1972)

“Everything Old is New Again”, All That Jazz (1979)

“Take Off With Us”, All That Jazz (1979)

“All That Jazz” (ft. Carly Hughes, Jennifer Nettles and Company), Chicago on Broadway (2015)

“All That Jazz” (ft. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger), Chicago on film (2002) 

“It’s Showtime, folks” triptych, All That Jazz (1979)

“Dressing Ceremony” triptych, Marie Antoinette (2006)

“5 Dollars” by Christine and the Queens, Chris (2018)

“Rich Man’s Frug”, Sweet Charity (1969)

“Get Me Bodied” by Beyoncé, B’Day (2006)

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Review, Rewind

A Mad World: The United States Theatre Project’s ‘columbinus’ Goes Inside the Typical All-American High School — And Tears it Apart

This past weekend’s viewing of A Shot Away had me reminiscing about other docudramas I’ve enjoyed over the years.  Jonathan Mandell noted how Red Fern’s production had reminded him of Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen’s The Exonerated, and I definitely agree; it had a lot of the same elements, including a lot of quote-worthy dialogue.  One other play that ASA had reminded me of was columbinus, a daring docudrama produced by The United States Theatre Project, in conjunction with New York Theatre Workshop.  

I often say that this was one of the plays that changed my life.  I had seen it with my AP English class my senior year of high school.  It was our last school trip as high schoolers, as well as our teacher, Mr. C.’s last as a high school teacher.  Mr. C. had always encouraged a love of the theatre in his students, bringing us out to the off-Broadway world and having legendary artists like Julian Beck and Judith Malina of The Living Theatre into the classroom.  For extra credit, he gave us an assignment where we had to review the play we had just seen.  The result is below — needless to say, I think I did very well!

Seeing columbinus changed how I thought about how theatre was performed and presented.  I realized that it wasn’t just merely another medium used to entertain, but that it provided a forum for social commentary.  It also further cemented the feeling that I had of theatre being a community that I wanted to be a part of, and still hope to be a part of now.  

So without further ado, here’s the review that started it all.

Imagine you’re walking down a hall full of kids: of artists and jocks, of drama geeks and “gangstas,” of dreamers and slackers alike.  Each kid pushing and shoving, trying to make their way through the mad world of high school — or at least just the halls, anyway.  It seems like it’s just another ordinary day at school…except that it’s not.  Despite the proclamation inscripted on the walls, stating: Through these halls pass the finest kids in America, above all the pushing and shoving you hear a gunshot.  In that instant, everything you ever thought or known about high school has completely changed. 

Such is the impact that is made upon viewing a performance of columbinus, a courageous piece based on the 1999 Columbine High School shootings in Littleton, Colorado.  In the play, the first act starts off depicting various familiar archetypes that would haunt any high school in middle America.  In the scene entitled “Selection,” the message that the persona you fit into is something that you purposely choose upon entering high school is shown through each character literally choosing single identifying props for their archetype.  There was a makeup compact for the popular blonde; cigarettes for the rebellious misfit, who also happened to be the drama geek; a hat for the jock; glasses for the nerd, etc.  With Gary Jules’ song, “Mad World” playing in the background, a song so eerily familiar to those who’ve seen the cult classic Donnie Darko, the scene certainly captures high school at its most real. 

And it’s a mad world, indeed.

What pleasantly surprised me was the added depth to each of these everyday figures — they’re not as one-dimensional as we all think them to be.  In one scene, in which The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” (also heard on another cult film, Cruel Intentions) propels a montage-like exploration into each character’s fears and weaknesses through individual spotlights.  We see the same misfit cutting herself, the popular blonde finding out she’s pregnant, and the resident religious girl having a crisis of faith.  As all of these characters line up on the edge of the stage, lip-synching to the song, we come to realize that theses are real people after all, hindered by their choice because they have no choice.

However, the play also starts off focusing on what we see as the everyday norm: the endless taunting and clique rivalries echo through the halls and in our minds.  From little incidents, such as ketchup packets being thrown at the “freaks,” to the isolation felt in the locker rooms, we see the familiar side of high school — its facade — and in it, we two teenagers living on the other side of the jeering, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris.  These two, of course,  are based on the actual mass murder duo also known as the “Trenchcoat Mafia.”  Decked out in cargo pants and military boots, along with their signature trenchcoats, both Klebold and Harris were seen as “different” — and for that, everyone had to pay the price.  Sick of having to endure the looks and the whispers day after day, Dylan and Eric start to devise a plan.

In the second act, the production portrayed a play-by-play of the events of April 20, 1999 — complete with documented recordings of 911 calls, as well as transcripts from conducted interviews with victims and actual images of the Mafia from surveillance feeds.  This portion of the production would certainly raise questions by the general public concerning possible exploitation of the victims and glorification of the murderers; how does one reenact a high school shooting?  Despite the questions raised, under P.J. Paparelli’s brilliant direction, raging violence was not on display here, but rather the poignant performances and unique talent of the entire columbinus company.  No longer in their stereotypical teenage garb, Anna Camp, Carmen Hurlihy, Nicole Lowrance, Joaquin Perez-Campbell and others recited actual accounts of the massacre in the library.  Here, they were not just “victims,” but people with strength and dignity, even in the face of a gun.

On that fateful April day, most of the 13 students who perished during the killing spree had been situated in the library.  Upon viewing Paparelli’s staged version of the library massacre, I was glad to see that the murderers were not given their heyday onstage.  Instead, they were left in the background while the rest of the company was at the forefront, making sure that the stories of the lives taken that day were heard over the sounds of “gunshots,” caused by the two villains banging  on the back wall.  This would come to symbolize memories begging to be heard over the deafening sounds trying to silence them into the ground.  For certain moments when victims were met with a gun, it had been staged so that the killers did not directly face them.

While I had been thoroughly impressed with the cast members playing the victims, I had been equally enthralled by the performances of both Will Rogers and Karl Miller, who played Klebold and Harris, respectively.  Throughout the production, I felt that these two had captured the essence of what it’s like as a disenfranchised youth in America today.  I felt Miller’s performance, particularly, to be intense, yet slightly vulnerable at the same time.  As for Rogers, I found him to be a great source of comedic relief during the “Instant Message” scene, as well as equally unwavering in his performance towards the end.  

All in all, columbinus is a surprisingly poignant, thought-provoking look at high school life and the ways it can manifest into something as self- (and mass-) destructive as a shooting.  You leave the theatre wondering how such an atrocity could happen in an adult-supervised world like high school.  Questions plague your mind and you suddenly reevaluate everything, because you realize that the people you just saw onstage reflect people you see everyday in the halls.  They’re the same people you wave hello to, cheat off of in science class,  or just plain ignore.  

Most importantly, you ask yourself one question above all others: Why? 

Images courtesy of New York Theatre Workshop. columbinus ran from May 5 – June 11, 2006 at the New York Theatre Workshop.

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