Late Summer: A Gallery of Images

I took many photos this summer, but I posted few images. Although they seldom appeared, they were edited and selected with craft and care. The text and images are loaded with personal meaning and continue to resonate emotionally. 

Looking back, the colours are faded and golden and the crops I favour are long and elongated. Although I sometimes wish I posted more, I'm proud of these images. I hope they point to the sustenance of the one who redeems all of the times.

Enjoy. And let me know what you think in the comments below. 

Boyhood (2014)

I expected to be impressed by director Richard Linklater latest film Boyhood. Who else but the director of the Before Trilogy, a twenty year experiment in long-term character development, would have the audacious patience to assemble a cast and film for 12 years the story of a boy and his family growing up? But I did not expect such joy. A growing smile enlarged into a full-on grin which remained on my face for film’s duration. As the film tracks the life of young Mason (Ellar Coltrane) and his family, we laugh, not just because the situations and banter are funny but because we recognize similar situations. The film is alerting us to the joy of the ordinary, the mundane special that is all around us, so easy to miss. 

One would assume such a landmark film to portray an ideal American family, but instead Mason and his sister Sam, (Lorelei Linklater) live with their single mom (Patricia Arquette). Their father (perfectly cast Ethan Hawke) is out of the picture and the pain this separation has on the kids is sensitively handled from their perspective. As weekend trips with Dad are balanced with school, video games, and bike rides with friends, their mom’s progressing career and education, adopted parents, and domestic abuse enter their story. Such difficult and complicated themes are not tucked away, but neither do they become the film’s focus. 

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Part of Boyhood’s appeal is watching this family grow up before us, each character making decisions and changing, not just in hair styles and facial structures, but as people. Mason and his dad grow closer then we might have originally guessed, friends come and go with surprising transience, skills and interests foster, fumble, and achieve success, and daily choices turn into personal characteristics. Like the darkroom negative that Mason develops in high school, this boy is turning into a man before our very eyes.

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But this film is not just about Mason. Each family member could be closely study, and I was especially fascinated by his Mom. At the beginning, she is not much too look at and, being an educated single parent, would likely never amount to much. And yet she pulls herself up out of poverty “for her kids sake,” earning several degrees, a noble pursuit that we applaud. By the time Mason is a teenager she is teaching college physiology and hosting dinner parties for students, the picture of modern success. Towards the end of the film, Mason is packing up for college and his Mom breaks into tears. Her sorrow is not in her son’s departure, as we’d come to expect from so many similar scenes in movies. Instead she grieves over her departing glory days, the fading of her youth, and the mortality of her success and achievements.  “I’m getting old” she cries, “and all I have to show for it are mortgages, reminders of divorce, and a house full of clutter.” Her life’s focus has been exposed as a self-centred striving after the wind. 

We see, in less then three hours, a beautiful time-lapse image of what it meant to grow up in my era. So many scenes rang true, yet I was struck by how different my boyhood was. I’m not referring to the video games I didn’t play or the alcohol and locker room dramas I didn’t experience. I’m thinking of my parents; my mum sacrificing her career for the unglamorous work of raising her offspring at home, my dad making the care of his son’s soul his priority.

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But to come away from theatre boasting in my own privileged upbringing would be to completely miss the point, blind to the wonders of this film. Boyhood’s gift is its empathy, and this empathy includes an understanding of my peer’s experiences and a realization of what we have in common. This modern life and all of its complexities are here on display in a grand miniature. We are invited to leave wiser in the ways of the modern man and filled with thanksgiving for the good gifts we all share.

Snowpiercer (2013)

The year is 2031. Seventeen years prior a worldwide attempt at cooling the earth to prevent global warning failed, plunging the planet into freezing ice. All infrastructure, culture, and civilization is now lost in an icy expanse, with the exception of a train that continuously circles the globe. In this train are the remains humanity, structured into strict classes where the rich dwell in the train’s front, living off the poor and ratty unfortunates who dwell in the train’s tail. 

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Clearly such a story is shot through with allegorical implications. The director, an ever innovative Korean named Joon-ho Bong, acknowledges this by fully embracing the representational world, sweeping us away with the completely realized costumes and detailed grit and grime, all captured by claustrophobic camera work. The people living at the back of the train daily suffer from injustice. As they become more desperate they begin a revolution, breaking out of their guarded tailend, led by a stern faced Chris Evans, a lively and witty Jamie Bell, and a couple of other motley ordinaries on a last-ditch effort to claim the engine and confront the owner of the train. As they proceed up the train and its compartment’s are opened one by one, they are met by the bureaucrats and their armies of axe welding soldiers, commanded by bizarrely costumed but perfectly convincing Tilda Swinton.  The resulting conflicts are brutally violent, blade on flesh and metal on blood, like so much of our civilization’s history. 

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The story, like the train, plunges ahead full throttle. It delights in surprising us as compartment after compartment are opened by the rebels revealing deadly twists and surprising turns. Main characters are killed off and minor characters become unexpectedly important. And as the movie hurtles towards its conclusion, we are left on the edge of our seat. How will it end and what vision of the world will it leave us with?

The train itself, containing all this is left of this world, becomes a compelling microcosm of the film’s view of reality. The train, and with it, all life, resides on a fixed track, hurtling along at a breakneck speed making an outside existence impossible. Its inhabitance focus on their misery or the distractions of their life but the few who glimpse the outside of the train see only hopelessness, a canvas bleak, chilling, and inescapable, who's inhabitants are “dead, all dead.” Ever and always the noise of the locomotive can be discerned, a daily reminder of its inhabitants vulnerability, sometimes grinding in the background, sometimes clanging and shaking.

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It is a bleak and despairing worldview, but it does take keen interest in its inhabitants, their existence, and their reasons for life. We could argue that the story paints a picture of a cruel God, grinding away at an eternal engine, pushing his cold doctrine through a brainwashed power structure.

But the film’s ending succeeds in surprising us, with both a twist and a heart. Listen closely as the population’s only hope tells a story of his people’s early days. Recognize the sacrifice and personal cost in that story and see how this heart of compassion for the least of these becomes a key to the climax of the film. Compassion, in a world as depraved is what is depicted here, holds a gleam of potential light and with it, hope. 

 

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (2014)


Summer blockbusters seam intent to satisfy crowds looking for low mental output and high octane thrills, but rarely do they leave the viewer with anything more enduring than a headache and more thought provoking than a love triangle. And so summers find contemplative viewers in small theatres seeking independent jewels. But when these viewers wants to talk intelligently about movies to anyone outside of the five audience members present at the indie theatre, Transformers 4 and Sex Tape don’t offer much fodder. But just when such hopelessness confronts us, along comes a smart blockbuster like Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, a film popular, exciting, and thought-provoking.

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This movie is not called Dawn of the Planet of the Humans and Apes, so from its very title we know that things do not look well for the humans who have survived the devastating simian flue. The evolved ape community will rule and our race will be exterminated. We just don’t know how, so we watch the nervous interaction between the new ape civilization in the Redwood Forest and the struggling humans in ruined San Francisco with incredibly high stakes. Minor decisions are being made and any one of them could be the spark that sets the inevitable bonfire of war alight.

This simmering tension is sustained by a musical score that, like the film, is both interesting and heartfelt. The cinematography is not content to to let us just sit back and partake in the action, instead it throws us in headfirst with angles that surprise and engage the viewer. And it's a major accomplishment that we grow to care for and understand the apes as equally as the film’s humans. Part of this is due to to the completely believable worlds that are built, both the rising ape culture and the ruined San Francisco.  And a large portion of credit goes to the astonishing work of Andy Serkis and his fellow ape actors. The audience develops a deep emotional resonance with their civilization but the remaining humans are not ignored. Instead, the uniqueness and preciousness of human life is acknowledged, especially in light of the oncoming disaster.  One might argue that there is less depth to the human characters, but I would say that since we are unfamiliar with the apes, the extra time spent with them is well proportioned. 

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Watching this movie will inevitably spark deep discussions. I would suggest that there are two conclusions we can walk away with. The first is the importance of a rooted understanding of what makes someone human. If humans are not made in the image of God, ethical decisions between apes and animals and lower life life or higher life loose their footing. But as sketchy as this ground is, I think Dawn of the Planet of the Apes deserves more praise than criticism for its ontological understanding, if we suspend our belief and acknowledge that the apes are humans. And that is the second conclusion. Fo even in an ideal community like that of the apes, war is inevitable. Someone is going pick the forbidden fruit, disobey the given rules, and fire the shot that will begin the collapse. The minor moral choices we make have great weight because their consequences are brutal.

Finding a movie that strikes us with these truths in such a fresh and thought provoking way is rare. Coupled with a story that is thrilling, special effects so effortlessly believable, and a world rendered with both explosive terror and and quite sadness, we have a summer blockbuster to be proud of. 

Tracks (2013)

This review was originally written in June 2014. The images are from the film and are not my own. 

People are conflicting, confounding, and confusing. Our interactions with them reveal a fundamental problem with our very core. Some of us try to ignore confronting this problem by distractions. Others bury it in resentment. A few take a more desperate action, what some might call crazy but what could actually be an honest response to the predicament. Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) was one of these people, a spirited young Australian who was inspired and driven to do a feat that had everyone shaking their heads. Her goal: walk across the Australian outback by herself, using four camels and accompanied only by her dog.

Of course, a film like this has to be based on a true story, first recorded in a 1978 National Geographic article and later a book by Davidson. And like any episodic travel film, there are challenges that come with such a territory. The film tackles these challenges in a frustrating mixture of half heartedness and visual creativity. The half heartedness came from attempting to check off the boxes we expect in a film about such a wilderness journey; Robyn loosing her compass, or being attached by the wild bull camels, or getting to know the local aboriginals. Another challenge is the recurring scenery, but here the photography prevailed, finding creative ways to show the austerity of the desert, focusing on its shadows, its negative space, its heat and its whiteness.

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But even if this territory felt flat, the grace and grit of Mia Wasikowska’s character holds and sustains our interest. Robyn is fascinating. Why would this slender willow of a woman tackle such a harsh landscape, peppered with such harsh people? Wasikowska’s face holds continued appeal as she attempts to read the people and environments she throws herself into. We are aware of every slimmer of loathing and longing that battle within her.

For it is people that she is trying to escape from, almost to prove that she is tough enough to be without those who betrayed her in the past. She tries to avoid those who pry into the curiosity of her journey. She shuns people who follow her, seeking to be alone with her animals But Robyn soon finds that a journey like hers requires the support of people. People to her train her camels, people to guide her during the roughest territory, and people to provide funding. And it is because of their contribution to this funding, National Geographic sends along Rick Smolan, played with a charming awkwardness by Adam Driver. Robyn dislikes him, for genuine reasons. He is pries too much and nearly ruins sections of her journey. He is annoying but can not be ignored.

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In the end, when the animals she loves dearest are taken from her, Robyn cracks under the weight of loneliness. The arid, white desert that she wanders through is empty and void of humanity and the few humans she encounters treat her like an oddity. As she continues her solitary quest, a sort of shock sets in. In one scene Robyn sets huddled under the blackness of the outback, her terrified eyes and sunburnt face illuminated only by her fire. Out of the darkness comes a stranger, talking cheerfully yet unceasingly, his face shrouded in a racing helmet, bright as clown’s. “F*ck man, it's cold out here” he drawls, warming his hands by her fire. She is terrified of his harmless appearance and as he leaves his statement rings with truth. This world and its inhabitants are cold.

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And yet there is something that can overcome this coldness and loneliness that accompanies it. There is a kindness that breaks through, persistent despite Robyn’s retreat. Strangers, themselves alone in this wilderness, take her in and offer her fellowship. Others, putting their own needs behind, guide her through the toughest sections of her journey. And one in particular goes out of his way to provide for her needs and celebrate her successes. It is this kindness that stands out against the harshness of the world and reveals the glimmer of hope still offered.

Godzilla (2014): A Capsule Review

This review was originally written in June 2014. The images are from the film and are not my own.

Genre films can be so boring. Superheros, bumps in the dark, cowboys pointing guns, they have become so much of a template that Hollywood can spit them out with more fanfare and twice as much sticky ooze as EasyBake cooking projects from my childhood. As result, moviegoers looking for visual creativity and thematic interest have learned to look elsewhere. 

But now and then we come across a creative visionary who takes this cookie cutter predictability and turns it into a challenge. In such a chef’s hands a genre  film, by very nature of its familiarity, can be used to say interesting things in interesting ways. Enter indie film darling Gareth Edwards. Entrusted with a Hollywood budget, we have a Godzilla to take note of.

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There is a creativity in this film that was unexpected. It contains a storyline that includes all of the major points (MONSTER FIGHTS! NUCLEAR SECRETS! CITIES DESTROYED!) but it had me guessing how he would get us there for the majority of its duration.

But even more appreciated was the way the camera introduces us to its world. There is repeated theme of windows and reflections - characters observing tragedy through a literal window, a window like frame accenting other scenes, and the window of a television used to provide a new angle on the action. But the camera is also aware of the vast space of this canvas and uses this space to full effect. A chameleon crawls on the jungle floor, a foreshadower of a much larger scaly creature. The camera pans beachgoers on vacation before it leads our eye to to the destruction in the distance hills.

These clever entries lead us directly to the “holy sh*t!” moments of scale and terror, making such moments all the more memorable. Equally impressive is the colour language at work (the Dante like scene of the paratroopers descending into the dust and ruin being a favourite).

In addition to being creatively realized, this movie also uses the familiar themes of a monster film to explore serious questions on man’s seeming power to control things. Their is a careful balance at work. Military power is shown to be necessary and important and yet futile in the face of such higher powers, much like the way such power is depicted in the Old Testament.

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The portrayal of Godzilla is of a great being to be feared, that leaves your city in tatters but, more importantly, alive, that conquers enemies at great cost to himself, leaving you humbled with the knowledge that, with such a creature alive the deep, your are never quite safe, never quite in control. It’s a biblical image that is rare to find in the blockbuster. There is a sacrifice and a brutality woven into the nature of universe.

It’s a shame that the human characters are so flat compared to such crackling brilliance. If we had something to latch onto in them this would of been a blockbuster for our generation.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

This review was originally posted in March 2014. The images are from the film and are not my own.

Every since seeing Moonrise Kingdom in a small theatre in 2012, Wes Anderson’s films have always held a certain magic over me. His minutely crafted details draw me in, but I return for the character’s honest and painful journeys, reminding me of the joys ever present in this life.

Wes Anderson always creates artificial or nostalgic worlds that are tucked away in their own space and time, connected to our world yet entirely their own. By its very title implying old world Europe, The Grand Budapest Hotel lets you know that this story will accentuate these traits. Yet Wes eases us into this faraway country by the use of not two but three prologues, each in a separate aspect ratio. It is a time very different than ours, where Andersoneon visual symmetry and character quirkiness feel entirely natural.

And so the hotel and its surrounding landscape, like a luxurious visual pop-up book dusted with icing sugar, is the ideal medium for Wes to perfect his signature style. Visual elegance is matched by characters so pitch-perfect that one false step would ruin the illusion - but this delicate pastry of a movie is in the hands of meticulous master and there are no false steps.

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A good portion the fun is its wound-up mechanical clock of a story involving train rides at night, tramways up snow covered mountains, luge sled chases (in stop motion) and an evil villain (William Defoe) with so many giant rings that his fingers are an ever present brass knuckle. The flavour is that of a Tintin adventure and the joy of the action is equaled by the joy of its humour. Wes Anderson’s jokes are always character driven and the characters here are numerous and in perfect step with each other. It's as if Wes gathered a "whose who" of old and new Hollywood players, impeccably outfitted and moustached them, and let them play their best, serving the story rather than themselves.

Ralph Fines plays M. Gustave H, a vain concierge, egotistic in his ever present service, dedicated in detail (and body) to every guest at his hotel (which all happen to be old, rich and equally fuelled by flattery). One of these guests, Madam D. (Tilda Swinton as her future self), is murdered in her mansion, setting off a goose chase involving fortune, a old-master painting, henchmen in black and the (somewhat) innocent against the (purely) evil.

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But just Madam D.’s fear foreshadows her eventual murder, an approaching darkness grows in the background of the picture, visualized by SS soldiers at checkpoints and the decay established in the prologue. This darkness announces its permanent arrival through several unexpected and grizzly deaths. This may be a fairytale world, but it is rooted in a real and tragic history.

This darkness helps balance what would otherwise be almost too sweet to swallow. Much like the film's tiny pastries that hid iron weapons, this confection of a film contains serious themes under its delicate wrapper. Guestave H., through his lobby boy in training (Tony Revolori),  undergoes a journey from vanity to humility and sacrifice. His protégée, Zero, realizes that against these dark tides of Nazism and socialism there is real love to protect and cherish - love for his fiancé Agatha (Saoirse Ronan) and his now elder brother Guestave H. Zero, who arrived in Europe with “zero” family, has found one. And even if tragedy takes them, his memories of them will leave him content.

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But there is hardly time to catch one's breath to let these themes sink in, which is perhaps why this volume doesn't rank as high in my books as Anderson’s other, more poignant, stories. And does this dark undercurrent lend itself to despair? Is there a certain sense of cynicism - the knowledge, given through the prologue before the story begins that as grand and elegant and beautiful as this Europe was, it would soon implode to death, decay, and depression - a grim riper, hiding in the dark shadows with socked feet? Perhaps, but one might argue that this is a realism that gives this visual delight its staying power. And lest we worry that subsequent times were devoid of beauty and humanity, Wes Anderson's other films should serve to remind us that joy, sorrow, repentance, and delight - life itself - will continue.